


In the Space Beneath Our Clothes

by kingaofthewoods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mollcroft, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingaofthewoods/pseuds/kingaofthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock’s fall, Molly finds herself spending a lot of time with his brother, Mycroft. What unfolds might seem strange, but is ultimately very simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Author of Put a Smile... here :) (I changed my penname.) Let me present my third foray into the world of Mollcroft. :) 
> 
> This story is still a WIP, but I have about 2/3 of it already written. I wanted to wait until it was complete before posting, but then I got scared that I would never manage before third series aired, so I decided to post early. :P
> 
> Great thanks go to my awesome beta hope_tang, and britpicker Kate 221b. :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :D

**Preface**

The morgue is cold and Molly shivers in her Christmas jumper and lab coat. The young woman with a badly disfigured face is her only companion, spread out on the slab and covered with a sheet. Molly looks down and pities her; being killed on Christmas is infinitely worse than being verbally eviscerated and then left to stew in one’s misery. She tries to look on the bright side of things – at least he apologized this time, and that’s no mean feat. She tries not to think about whose moan so quickly interrupted that short moment when she held his complete attention.

And now this. No rest for the wicked, it seems. Sherlock is working on Christmas, and that apparently extends to her post as his personal morgue attendant and whipping girl. When he strides in, she can barely keep her eyes away from him. He’s strangely subdued and considerate, to which she replies with her usual awkwardness, because there seems to be no end to her humiliation today. She barely notices the other man; he is a dark presence in the corner of her eye, his voice entering her ears, but his words not registering.

Sherlock asks to see the dead woman’s naked body and she suddenly feels like a voyeur, watching the man she wants admiring another woman’s figure. Later she will tell herself that it’s unnecessarily morbid, that it was not what it looked like, that there had to be a reasonable – or at least rational - explanation for everything that Sherlock did, but then she’ll remember her pitiful question and the stranger’s meaningful non-answer. The memory will coalesce into a bland stretch of faceless lips that stab her heart with hurtful abandon.

The man himself will be forgotten.

**Part One**

During the three days after Sherlock’s fall, Molly Hooper is a paranoid ball of nerves. Every person on the Tube is following her and every suspicious sound in her flat is Moriarty’s lackey trying to break down her door. Sherlock has disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving her with two instructions: don’t tell anyone and don’t draw any attention to yourself. The latter seems to be working quite well for her, mostly because not many people actually know that she is in any way connected to the detective’s death, and even if they knew, it wouldn’t make for interesting news. The public is too preoccupied with the illicit life and lies of the “fake genius” to bother with his death; as far as they are concerned, Sherlock Holmes killed himself by splattering his brains on the concrete pavement adjacent to St. Bartholomew’s hospital and, conveniently, he left behind not only a rather large blood stain, but also an eyewitness. As Sherlock had predicted, no one is interested in the name on a forged certificate.

As per instruction, Molly is absent during the identification. It’s for the best; whichever member of his family comes to identify Sherlock’s drug-relaxed “dead” body is bound to be perceptive enough to notice something suspicious in her body language. So, in order to minimalise the risks, Molly makes herself invisible. It’s not an arduous task; she’s been good at it all her life, even if it is rarely by design.

It’s the not telling people that she finds extremely difficult. She doesn’t go to the funeral because she’s sure she won’t be strong enough to keep the secret once she sees either John or poor Mrs Hudson. She’s not keen on meeting Sherlock’s family either, because she knows she won’t be able to look them in the eye. So when Greg phones her with the details, she brokenly tells him she won’t be coming. Instead, she holes herself in her flat, cries bitter tears into her mug of tea and jumps every time she hears a pair of footsteps echoing outside her door.

In the end, despite her paranoia, no one so much as approaches her, no one from New Scotland Yard summons her for a hearing, and not one journalist asks her for an interview. Even when his family presses for a post-mortem and she volunteers for the job, no one bats a single eyelid. She appears to be as emotionally unconnected from Sherlock Holmes as if she had never even met him. No one seems to care that she’s been letting him into her lab for years. It’s like she’s just not there.

It’s just as well. She’s come to terms with the fact that she doesn’t count, so even though the realization stings, she welcomes it with open arms, because it means that no one will be coming after her. Gradually, she relaxes. She stops looking over her shoulder in the market and no longer wakes up drenched in cold sweat at every strange noise during the night.

Everything changes exactly four days after Sherlock’s fall.

She is at Bart’s when it happens. It’s lunchtime, but she is still in her office rather than in the canteen. It’s a Thursday; there’s nothing edible on the menu today, so she is munching on a tuna sandwich while poring over her paperwork. She’s not expecting anyone at this time of day, so she’s understandably startled when a man slips through her door, closing it behind him.

“What – Er –,“ she mumbles around a bite of tuna and stands up quickly, her chair skidding on the floor.

“Miss Hooper,” the man drawls, a condescending sneer twitching at his lips. “I believe we’ve already met. There’s no need for theatrics.”

She swallows the food with an audible gulp and takes a moment to look at him properly. Tall, dark-haired, around ten years her senior, in a tailored prim three-piece suit, and with a face that has a superiority complex etched permanently at the base of a long nose. He walks towards her slowly, each step deliberate and poised. She can’t help but find him and his affected dainty walk extremely ridiculous. What he needs, she decides, feeling a bit hysterical, is an umbrella in the crook of his arm – no, wait, there it is. It slips down his forearm and he catches the curved handle in his manicured hand, leaning on it for support as he comes to a stop in front of her. And he’s worried about her theatrics, she thinks, failing to suppress a very inappropriate little smile.

“Am I amusing you?” he asks, sounding like he is the one who should be highly entertained. He’s probably not, judging by the crease between his brows. Molly sobers up.

“Sorry,” she mutters, chagrined. Damn her and her skewed social skills. She should know better than to laugh at strange men when she doesn’t know what they want. “I’m sorry, but I can’t – Well, I don’t recall meeting you before, sorry.” _I’d certainly remember it if I had_ , she thinks, eyeing the polished points of his shoes and the little handkerchief in his breast pocket.

His eyebrows climb up his forehead and his surprise is tinged with dismay. His face is really expressive, even though it seems that most of the emotions he shows are negative. It’s a shame, really, because she imagines that he would look quite nice and soft with a proper sort of smile.

“You actually don’t remember me,” he comments in arched wonder. “Remarkable.”

Her amusement fades. “I’m really sorry,” she flounders. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He levels her with an impassive look. “You performed the post-mortem on Sherlock Holmes, didn’t you, Miss Hooper?”

She flinches. Suddenly this man is not so much ridiculously theatrical as ridiculously dangerous. The fact that she was the one who did Sherlock’s post-mortem is not public knowledge, so she has no idea where he got the information from. He doesn’t look like someone from the press or the police, so the only logical assumption is that he found out through illegal means, which can only mean that his interest is both sinister and entirely unwelcome.

“I – I don’t know what you mean,” she responds, not quite quickly enough. She’s never been a good liar. The whole scheme depends on her being unnoticeable, not a con-artist. No one was supposed to notice her involvement, yet alone question her.

“Miss Hooper, let’s not play games,” the man chides, his voice like steel. “We both know the truth.”

Molly swallows, feels her palms sweat. Continued denial will make it look suspicious, like there’s something wrong, like she’s expecting him to dig deeper, ask difficult questions. But meekly agreeing is not going to help either, after she’s already tried to misdirect him. The only choice is to deflect.

“Who are you?” she asks, gathering all of her courage into sounding authoritative. She fails, of course.

“A concerned party,” he parries easily. “Now, about the post mortem – “

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything,” she interrupts firmly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Each patient’s files are confidential. It’s really none of your business.”

He arches his eyebrows again. “I was under the impression that family members had open access to any files concerning the deceased.”

It’s her turn to be surprised and to lose her bravado. “Family members?”

“Yes, Miss Hooper. I am Sherlock’s elder brother.” And there’s that condescending sneer again. “Perhaps now you will be more amenable to giving me the information I need?”

She almost snorts. She may have been stupid and gullible in the past, but she’s been burnt enough times to have learned her lesson. Not everyone is who they say they are, and it’s most certainly true when it comes to people interested in Sherlock Holmes. Anger bubbles inside of her chest, a helpless fury only fuelled by the fact that he’s looking at her down his stupid pointy nose, thinking that she’s an idiot, that she’s a stupid little girl who’ll give him what he wants without any effort on his part. That nose wrinkles in disdain as his eyes travel down the pink jumper she put on this morning, like he can’t help but show his disgust, like it proves his point, telling him she won’t be any trouble. Her cheeks flush in embarrassment and a niggling self-conscious thought settles in her head. This is why no one takes her seriously, why every psycho out there thinks he can dupe her. The way she dresses, the way she talks, the way she’s so easy to flatter…  But she can’t think about it now, she needs to focus.

“Sir, if you’re family, you can apply for the summary of the post-mortem report at the office upstairs,” she bites out, feigning politeness. “Now if you’ll excuse me – “

“Miss Hooper, I’d rather talk to you, if you don’t mind,” he cuts through, smiling pleasantly. “In such a… delicate… situation it is always better to have a bit of a more… personal touch, don’t you think? And you look like a compassionate young lady, I am sure you can understand how I would rather discuss the matter with you than read it on paper.”

What strikes her is that he’s really excellent in his approach, that if she hadn’t figured him out, she’d have fallen for his silver tongue and given in. She stares at him in a rare moment of clarity, seeing herself through his eyes, and very much not liking what she discovers. Because she is that person, that pathetic little girl no one takes seriously, because she doesn’t take herself seriously, and it’s okay, really, it is, she is inconsequential, insignificant, it shouldn’t sting so much, really, but it’s Sherlock’s life at stake and she needs to be brave and it’s about more than just her so she needs to get over herself already _._

So she stares up at this stranger’s stupid, smug little face, adrenaline, anger and hurt coursing through her veins, making her hands and knees shake like mad, and she says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, sir. And it’s _Doctor_ Hooper, actually.”

It comes out better than she’d expected, there’s no tremor in her voice, even if it’s still vaguely like a pitiful squeak. The man considers her for a prolonged moment, clearly unpleasantly surprised, but his eyes are flat, completely cold, and she shivers despite herself because how could she not have noticed that this man really isn’t ridiculous, that he means business?

“Apologies,” he concedes eventually. “Thank you for your time, Doctor Hooper.”

He gives her a mocking little bow, opens the door and sweeps outside, umbrella swinging in tune with his steps.

She stands there for a long while afterwards, staring after him, tuna sandwich forgotten in her hands, shocked, frightened, vindicated, and one hundred per cent certain that this is not the last she has seen of him.

*

The pink jumper, instead of joining her other jumpers in her laundry basket, ends up being shredded into bits in a fit of pique. Later, when she gathers the useless pink pieces of wool and places them in her rubbish bin, she feels foolish and embarrassed by her own stupidity. She doesn’t know what to think anymore. She hates that her life puts her in situations where simply being herself leaves her in a state of utter humiliation. Or maybe it’s not her life’s fault, but her own. She’s the one who leaves herself so vulnerable. She’s the one without armour. She dates a man who pretends to be gay, or maybe is, but actually is a psychopath with a fixation on her crush; she obsesses over an impossible man who treats her like dirt, but in the end, tells her she counts and uses her to fake his death.

It’s the counting that gets to her. The fact that Sherlock finds her important enough to let her assist him in something as tremendous as manufacturing his own suicide is something she will never get over. Some nights, in the dark, curled up under her duvet, she recalls the quiet desperation in his piercing eyes when he approached her at the morgue, when he told her he was going to die. During those times she likes to think that this might have actually been the defining moment of her life. There can’t really be anything as big and as important for her to do as what she’s already accomplished. Now she only needs to keep the secret, to buy him the time he needs to dismantle Moriarty’s web of criminals.

And in order to do that, she needs to be more confident. She has been careless: it’s only been days, she has thought that if no one had approached her by now then no one ever would, that she is safe in her anonymity, unconnected from the media circus that had only now begun to settle. But she should have known; the truly formidable opponent wouldn’t barge straight into interrogating her, no, he’d bide his time, sniff around, wait for her to let her guard down. And he didn’t even have to try so hard, did he? He just approached her at her office, in the light of day, and she had never seen him coming. There’s no knowing when he’ll strike next.

She triple-checks her locks and her windows so she feels at least marginally secure that no one will invade her flat while she’s in the shower. So when she emerges from the bathroom half an hour later, she almost dies of a heart attack when she finds a man in her living room.

“Sherlock!” she cries in shock.

“Do keep your voice down, Molly.”

“Yes, God, sorry,” she squeaks, chagrined.

He’s slumped on her sofa, wearing an oversized hoodie. His hair is cropped short and dyed an awful shade of ginger, which makes him look strange, sort of gangly and awkward. Yet his eyes are as piercing as ever when they track all over her body, deducing.

“It’s fine,” he rumbles. “I doubt any of your neighbours are awake at this hour. He accosted you, didn’t he?”

Molly blinks. “Who?”

“Mycroft, obviously.”

She stares. “Mycroft who…?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. My brother, Mycroft, a fat pompous arse with an umbrella.”

Comprehension dawns, and with it comes crushing relief. So the man really was Sherlock’s brother, and not another criminal overlord. For a moment she feels boneless and light, and the stress and shock of the day make her latch onto the most ridiculous things.

“He’s not fat,” she mutters inanely.

Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal. “What did he want?”

She perches next to him on the sofa. “He wanted to talk to me about your post-mortem.”

“Ugh, dull.” He reaches into his pocket and then tosses her a mobile phone. “Give him this the next time he kidnaps you.”

“What…?” she asks faintly.

“He’ll try again, obviously. He underestimated you this time, but now when he snatches you off the street, he’ll be prepared. The phone is a way of contacting me.”

“What do you mean, snatches me off the street?” she presses, feeling completely out of her depth.

“That’s his preferred modus operandi. He kidnaps people for a living, especially when he’s trying to instil awe and the fear of God in his victims.”

Molly absorbs this bit of information with a great deal of unease, but without much surprise. She has already met the man, and if he’s really Sherlock’s brother, then everything about him makes all the more sense. In light of this, going from a dramatic umbrella to kidnapping people to make a point is not that big of a leap.

“Who is he?” she asks, genuinely interested. “What does he do? Is he a detective like you…?”

Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft? He’s too lazy to be a detective. But that doesn’t stop him from being the most dangerous man you’ve ever met.”

Thoroughly disturbed, Molly bites her lip. “But who _is_ he?”

“The shadow behind the British government, when he’s not too busy steering the MI6 or freelancing for the CIA.”

His words are flippant, but the quirk of his mouth tells her a different story. In a flash, Molly realizes that he’s _bragging_. The sight of Sherlock Holmes boasting about his almighty older brother is so endearing that she can’t help but grin. Mycroft Holmes must really be incredibly powerful if he’s able to inspire so much pride and respect in a man like Sherlock, whose scorn of humanity is legendary. Suddenly something else occurs to her.

“Sherlock… If your brother is so powerful… Then why didn’t you ask him for help instead of me?”

His eyes turn to her sharply and she is treated to a bewildered expression not dissimilar to the one she received after telling him she didn’t count. Molly frowns.

“Do you not get on?” she asks gently.

Sherlock opens his mouth, then swallows, before finally answering, “He’s my archenemy.”

Molly blinks. There is a discord between the meaning of the word and the way it is said; it has a taste of grudging camaraderie, it’s like a codeword, a nickname, a remnant of a distant childhood game. She reads between the lines and makes a working hypothesis about the Holmes brothers’ relationship. She thinks of the man in her office, buttoned up to the last button of his tailored waistcoat, an image of controlled perfection, living life of the elder brother of the uncontrollable hurricane of a man that is Sherlock; and Sherlock, the free fire spirit, smouldering in his brother’s shadow and under his smothering gaze.

“Oh,” she says. “You wanted to do it on your own.”

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment and then, without warning, he jumps to his feet and makes for the door.

“Give the phone to him when you see him,” he throws over his shoulder.

“Wait!” she cries. “Are you going to disappear again?”

“Yes, that is rather the point, Molly,” he quips impatiently.

“I know, but can’t you… I don’t know, keep me updated? Let me know that you’re alive, at least?”

She knows it’s a long shot, but she has to try. She’s been worried sick the past several days, and if it keeps up, the uncertainty is going to drive her bonkers.

Sherlock pauses in her doorway, considering. She holds her breath, watching the back of his ginger-haired head. Finally, he exhales softly.

“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

Molly sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

He nods wordlessly and slips out, leaving her alone once again.

*

It’s several days before Mycroft Holmes makes contact with her for the second time. And, as Sherlock has predicted, it is rather spectacularly theatrical.

She’s out with her mother, trailing after the older woman while she ambles from one shop window to another. They’re conversing easily, almost lazily, about nothing in particular. Or rather, it’s Molly’s mother who narrates, and Molly who listens, because she’s not a good conversationalist, but she’s a damn good listener. It’s one of their bonding rituals: once in a while they meet up at a mall or a shopping district and wander around, not really buying much, sometimes catching a bite to eat, but really just enjoying each other’s company without the dreaded tea set and the silences that seem to fill her mother’s empty rooms.

“I can’t believe little Sheila is actually getting married,” her mother remarks while browsing through a hanger of summer skirts in one of the less pricey boutiques. “I could swear she was just doing her A-levels yesterday.”

Sheila is Molly’s cousin, and her mother’s niece. She is six years younger than Molly, and at least as many times as beautiful. Her ordinary, feminine job as a florist is another thing that adds to her already considerable charm. Molly loves her and treats her like the little sister she never had, but sometimes she can’t help but feel a bit resentful over the way Sheila effortlessly manages to earn the approval of the entire family. Especially when they conveniently forget that Shelia failed to get into college, but instead praise her for finding a lovely fiancé. Naturally Molly, with her morbid career that no one dares to mention over dinner and her lacklustre love life, bears the brunt of the symmetrical and almost unanimous disapproval.

“Hmm,” she hums noncommittally. Her mother carries on.

“It’s a shame that the wedding’s still so far away… But I suppose it’s because it all costs so much nowadays, the dress, the reception, the honeymoon. It’s much cheaper to book a place in advance, really. It’s only sensible.”

Molly is not listening, too busy ogling the most beautiful trouser suit she has ever seen. The fabric is a lovely shade of grey, punctuated by slimming pinstripes, and the cut is modern but classy, the jacket wasp-like at the waist thanks to a single button, but flaring at the hips and gently flowing along the curves of the mannequin. She ambles towards it and runs her fingers against the soft sleeve. It’s love at first sight, the burn so intense that it makes her self-conscious. She imagines herself wearing it, the suit making her feel powerful, and immediately scoffs at herself. It’s not her style, and most definitely out of her price range. Where would she wear it, anyway?

But her mind reminds her of the pink jumper, and the man with the umbrella, and she wonders whether he would have taken her more seriously had she been wearing a suit like this under her lab coat instead of the pink atrocity.

Echoes of humiliation flushing her cheeks, she grabs the suit in grim determination, and marches towards the changing room, ignoring her mother’s arched eyebrows.

A couple of minutes later, she is standing in front of the mirror, barefoot but suited, twisting her hair out of the juvenile ponytail into a bun at the nape of her neck. The transformation is startling.

Behold Doctor Molly Hooper, the adult.

“Do you think I should start wearing things like this so that people treat me more seriously?” she asks uncertainly. Her mother gives the suit an assessing look.

“Where would you wear it? Surely not to work. I mean, wouldn’t you get it dirty with… I mean…”

Molly cringes. “I wear protective scrubs for that, mum.”

“Ah, right…” her mother trails off. “Well, you can try it if you think you need it.”

Molly moves her hand against the smooth material of the jacket and she thinks back to Sherlock’s brother and the immaculate cut of his suit. The perfection of his clothes gave him an air of importance, and it made his otherwise rather weasel-like and forgettable face into an arched mask of money and class. Perhaps the clothes do make the man, she thinks morosely. If that’s the case, then it’s no wonder that her cheerful print jumpers and frilly blouses make her seem like a silly schoolgirl.

“I think I’ll take it,” she announces. “There’s a conference coming up that I’d like to go to. I could wear it there.”

“Ah, is that so?” her mother mutters distractedly, checking the price tag of a nice pair of trousers. “If you think you can afford it, then buy it. God knows you don’t have many expenses. Wait till you have a child; you won’t be so quick to buy yourself pretty clothes then…”

Molly presses her lips into a thin line. She doesn’t tell her mother that to have a child you need to have a partner. She doesn’t tell her that having a partner in her case is not something that comes easily. And most of all, she doesn’t mention that even if she, by some miraculous turn of the universe, did acquire a man, she’s still not sure that she would want a child. She pushes the vague feeling of guilt out of her head and makes up her mind.

“Right. I’ll just go and pay then.”

“Mhm, you do that while I go and look around a bit more.”

Molly takes off the suit and folds it reverently before approaching the cash register. The clerk takes it from her with a smile and checks it out, but before she can pay, the shop phone goes off. The girl gives her an apologetic shrug and picks up. After a moment, she sends her a strange look.

“Are you Doctor Hooper?”

Molly blinks, startled, and nods. The girl hands her the receiver.

“It’s for you.”

Completely stunned, Molly puts the receiver to her ear. “Hello? Molly Hooper speaking,” she says uncertainly.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Hooper,” answers a pleasant voice. It takes her only a second to place it, and the realization makes her inhale sharply. Mycroft Holmes chuckles into her ear. “I see you remembered me this time. That’s good; it makes things easier for me.”

Molly swallows her shock. “What – Why – How did you know – Why are you calling me at the shops?!”

“I’m afraid I underestimated you before, for which I apologize,” he explains evenly. “I am not going to make that mistake twice. This phone call is a way of ensuring your cooperation, Doctor Hooper.”

“W-What do you want?” she asks, forcing herself to be calm. This is Sherlock’s brother, for God’s sake, she knew he would be coming after her. She has the mobile phone in her handbag, she’s come prepared, so she has nothing to worry about.

“Do you see the woman who is talking to your mother?” Molly whirls around and sure enough, there is a beautiful young woman in an expensive skirt suit who is chatting politely with her mum. The woman is clearly bored with the conversation, as she seems to be constantly fingering her BlackBerry. “She is my personal assistant,” comes Mycroft’s honey-voiced explanation. “She is currently asking your mother to accompany her to the changing rooms to aid her in the purchase of some clothing. Once there, she will dose your mother with a sedative concealed in her sleeve and with the help of my other associates, she will carry Andrea Hooper through the staff quarters to the car conveniently parked just outside the back door.”

Molly stands frozen, rooted to the floor, watching in horror as the woman leisurely leads her chattering mother towards the changing room.

“Wh-What do you want me t-to do?” she chokes out.

“There is another car waiting at the front entrance. The driver will recognize you. I will see you very soon, Doctor Hooper.”

With that, he disconnects the call, and Molly wastes several seconds on trying not to hyperventilate. Eventually, she gives the receiver back to the clerk and walks towards the exit, abandoning the suit and ignoring the girl’s outraged cry.

She spots the black Mercedes with tinted windows immediately after she finds herself outside, her heart in her throat. She stands on the pavement, gaping, until the driver gets out and opens the door for her. She hesitates for a single second before stumbling to the car and climbing inside.

There’s no one there. She is alone with the driver, who ignores her as he guides the car back into traffic. Molly sits in the backseat, tightening her trembling hands into fists and obliterating her lips with her teeth. She tries to follow the route they are taking, but the driver sneaks around back alleys and she soon finds herself utterly lost. Not knowing what else to do, she fishes her phone from her handbag and sends a quick text to her mum.

_R u ok?_

The reply comes almost immediately and Molly almost sags into the leather upholstery in her relief.

_Yes, of course I’m ok, where are you?_

_I had to run. I got a call from the morgue. Sorry. See u next week?_

She passes her shaking hand over her eyes and then rubs her temples. She should have known something like this would happen, she scolds herself. Sherlock warned her about what his brother is capable of, but she still thought it would somehow resolve itself. And now her mother has been threatened and she’s in a car with a stranger driving her to God only knows where. _So this is what Sherlock meant when he said “when he snatches you off the street”_ , she thinks with a snort of disbelief.

She palms Sherlock’s mobile phone without taking it out of her handbag and gradually relaxes. This is Sherlock’s brother, she’s going to explain, and everything will be fine, she tells herself. Finally, she won’t be the only person with this secret. She’ll have someone to share it with.

Eventually, the driver takes her out of the city and down a motorway, before shortly turning down a second class road to an old, abandoned construction site. Molly watches the rusty fence and faded signs with trepidation. She’s still fairly sure that nothing will actually happen to her, but she can’t help but be a bit anxious. What if he doesn’t listen to her? What if he doesn’t believe her? Sherlock didn’t seem concerned about his brother abducting her unexpectedly, but Sherlock tends to have a skewed idea of what’s safe and harmless.

“He’s waiting in the architect’s cabin.” The driver opens the door for her and motions her through the open gate. She walks a bit unsteadily, clutching her handbag in front of her, casting nervous glances around, as if waiting for someone to jump at her with a knife from behind a pile of breeze blocks. The architect’s cabin is a small metal box off to the right, with its windows smashed in and its door slightly ajar. She reaches for the knob and pulls it open.

Mycroft Holmes is standing with his back to her, partially hidden in the shadows, leaning on his umbrella and pretending to read the frayed safety poster tacked to one of the walls.

“Shut the door, Doctor Hooper.”

She does as asked, and then takes several hesitant steps forward.

“Hello.”

He turns then, and regards her with a cold expression.

“I trust your situation is clear to you?”

Molly swallows. “Yes,” she chokes out, feeling like a trapped lamb. Mycroft’s eyes are completely flat, and somehow that lack of feeling seems much more frightening than any mindless fury. If she hadn’t been expecting this, she would have probably been scared witless. As such, she is alarmed, yes, but still relatively optimistic.

“Good.” Nonchalantly, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket for a small brown notebook. Its contents prompt him to raise a single eyebrow. “Interesting. 31, single, you live alone with a cat named Toby. Only daughter of Jeremy Hooper, deceased, and Andrea Hooper, shop clerk. The first in the family to have gained a degree. Your parents hoped for a GP, and yet you specialized in forensic pathology. Apart from your family, you have close ties with Meena Graham, 31, whom you met at university. Hardworking, perfectionist, socially awkward, self-effacing. Your biggest fear is dying alone. Need I go on?”

Molly shakes her head, aghast. It’s really unpleasant how your life can be reduced to a number of awful facts. Such a wealth of time and experiences encapsulated in a couple of sentences. Unconsciously, she makes a face at her thoughts, and only catches herself when she notices Mycroft scrutinizing her.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” he remarks.

She shrugs awkwardly. “Well, um. I don’t have anything to be afraid of, I don’t think. Do I?”

His mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. She takes it as a sign of displeasure.

“I thought you agreed that the situation was clear to you.”

“I did, yes.”

He narrows his eyes.

“I did threaten your mother and then have you brought to a place where no one would ever find your body.”

She chokes on a nervous laugh. “Yes… Right, yes, you’re absolutely right… but Sherlock warned me, sort of, so I was kind of expecting it… Even so, you didn’t have to threaten my mum, I would have come any – oh, God, are you all right?!”

He’s gone deathly pale and sways forward before catching himself on his umbrella. Molly pauses with her arms outstretched, and then brings her hands to her mouth.

“Oh, my God, you didn’t know, I thought you knew, oh God, I’m so, so sorry, I really thought you knew!”

His grip on the umbrella slackens and he sways again. This time Molly doesn’t hesitate and puts her hands on his arms to steady him, but he flinches at the barest contact and sharply steps away.

“That – that won’t be necessary, Doctor Hooper,” he tells her in a voice that is only slightly unsteady.

She watches helplessly as he straightens himself and passes a hand over the crease above his nose.

“So let me make this clear. My brother is alive, I take it?” he asks, not looking at her.

“Yes,” she confirms, holding back the tears that are making her eyes sting. This is heart-wrenching and she feels like she shouldn’t be here to witness this, but she can’t tear her eyes away. The almost invisible play of emotions on this man’s stubbornly composed face fascinates her and she watches him like one does an accident, with horrified compulsion. She reads a fury in the tightening of his lips and sees a deep relief in his calculated blinks. She interprets the love that is painted in the creases of his laugh lines and the accompanying hurt that nestles in the shadows under his eyes.

“I see.”

The silence rings out for several long moments.

“I understand he wants to make contact?”

The words are delivered flippantly, but she can clearly hear the mangled, bleeding hope that peeks from behind fake indifference.

“Yes, let me just… Here.” She hands him the mobile phone and steps back, watching his long fingers tighten around the lump of cheap plastic. “He said you could contact him with this… I mean – ”

“Thank you, Doctor Hooper,” he interrupts her. “The car will take you home.”

And like that, she is dismissed. She hesitates for a second, unwelcome words of sympathy dying on her lips. Eventually, she hangs her head, mutters a quiet apology, and leaves.

As she walks back to the car, she realizes that she probably won’t see him again. She is not entirely surprised to discover that the thought makes her sad.

*

When a package containing the trouser suit she never managed to buy arrives anonymously at her flat the next day, Molly puts it reverently at the back of her wardrobe, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my beta Hope Tang, and Britpicker Kate 221b! :) All remaining mistakes and awkward phrasing are my own.

**Part Two**

“Molly… Are you all right?”

Molly startles out of her reverie and frowns. “Yes, of course I’m all right, what are you talking about?”

Meena leans her forearms on the round table separating them and takes a deep breath. “You were in love with him, weren’t you? With Sherlock Holmes?”

Molly can’t help but flinch a little. It’s been two weeks since Sherlock’s fall and Meena has been dancing around the issue all this time, swarming her with texts and well-meaning phone calls. She thinks Molly is grieving for her lost love, and in a way, she is right, but not entirely. Molly is long past grieving for her love for Sherlock; now she is grieving for the love other people have for the fallen detective. She saw DI Lestrade’s clouded eyes when he came round to the morgue a couple of days back, worn out by the media circus and the public inquiry into how a fraud of a private detective became mixed up with New Scotland Yard. She was so jittery around him that she felt sure that he suspected something, but he didn’t say anything, only smiled so sadly at her, as if in commiseration, that her eyes welled up and he ended up comforting her awkwardly and guiding her through her breakdown, which made her cry harder out of guilt. The expression on his face as he kissed her on the cheek before he left broke her heart into tiny little pieces. It did nothing to prepare her for the glimpse of John Watson’s hunched figure she caught on the Tube the other day. Afraid to be seen, Molly fled as soon as the train rolled into the next stop, but she needn’t have bothered; the man was an empty shell, eyes turned inwards and lost in the void within. She watched through the glass window as his expressionless grey face and empty eyes rolled away into the darkness of the underground, leaving her alone in the fluorescent light of the platform, the unnoticed villain.

“Molly?” Meena gently, taking her hand.

Molly snaps out of her memories again and is surprised to find herself silently crying. “Oh, gosh, look at me, snivelling…”

“There’s nothing wrong with crying when you’re sad,” says Meena, passing her a pack of tissues.

Molly chokes down a sob, forcing herself to calm down. They are out in a little quaint café, and even though it’s really cosy, it’s not a place for blubbering like an idiot. She takes a tissue and dabs forcefully at her eyes, squeezing them shut against the flow of tears. It takes her a moment, but eventually the rush of emotion subsides and she is able to cover the storm inside her with a veneer of calm.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters into her cup of hot chocolate.

“Oh, Molly,” Meena shakes her head sadly. “How many times must I tell you that you don’t have to apologize for crying?”

Molly cringes and doesn’t answer, because she knows that Meena wouldn’t be quite so understanding if she knew the real reason for her tears. She swallows the guilt and shame rising in her throat and chases them down with another sip of chocolate.

“How’s Josh?” she redirects the conversation. Josh is Meena’s husband, recently made redundant and on the lookout for a new job. Meena levels her with a look clearly saying that she isn’t fooled, but her friend relents anyway, and soon they move to other topics. The rest of their meeting passes without incident, with Molly trying very hard to smile, laugh, and nod at the appropriate moments. When they finally part, Meena gives her a tight hug. Molly returns it stiffly, knowing she doesn’t deserve it. She ducks out of the café first and hurries down the street without looking back.

She walks with her shoulders hunched and her eyes fixed on the ground, so she almost jumps out of her skin when she hears a woman’s voice greet her when she rounds a corner.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Hooper.”

Molly whirls around and clutches at her chest in fright. A beautiful woman in a skirt suit is standing next to the entrance of what appears to be a dingy old-fashioned teashop. For a moment, Molly doesn’t recognize her, but a second later, the penny drops and her heart rate speeds up in anticipation.

The woman raises a single eyebrow. “He’s waiting for you inside,” she says simply. “Come with me.”

Molly hesitates for a single moment and then follows the woman into the teashop. The interior is even more uninspiring than the exterior, with dim wallpaper and rickety tables, but the three sleepy patrons don’t seem bothered by the lacklustre décor. There’s no sight of Mycroft Holmes anywhere, but the woman leads her down a corridor, past the toilet, and towards a door at the back, all the time tapping away at her BlackBerry. She gives Molly a nod and walks away. Molly stares after her, and then at the silent door, before giving it a hesitant knock and stepping inside.

The small room she walks into is not noticeably different from the rest of the shop, the walls covered with a dark, old-fashioned wallpaper and the table and chairs at the centre old and worn. And yet, Mycroft Holmes with his dark, pinstriped suit and rich red tie seems completely at home in this drab, unremarkable place. He is sitting languidly in one of the chairs, checking his pocket watch. When she enters, he raises his head and gives her a bland smile.

“Doctor Hooper, how good of you to come.”

Molly considers him and decides there’s really no point in arguing that his cloak and dagger method of arranging clandestine meetings is a bit annoying, and instead closes the door behind her.

“Hello.”

“Please sit down,” he says pleasantly, motioning to the plain tea set on the table. “Would you care for a cup of Earl Grey?”

“Yes, please.”

“Milk or lemon?”

“Milk and two sugars, please.”

He cocks a mocking eyebrow, but she stares him down. Who is he to tell her how to enjoy her tea? He can stuff his posh anti-milk policy up his – Molly forcibly pushes that thought out of her head and seats herself across from him.

“You’re probably wondering why I called you here.”

“Um, yes, actually…”

He adds the milk to the Earl Grey with a slight grimace, but then his features return to their neutral expression. “Here.” He places the cup in front of her. “I hope it’s to your... liking.”

“Thank you,” she answers, a bit prissily.

He ignores her tone and moves to the matter at hand. “I wanted to apologize for my… lack of composure the last time we saw each other.”

Molly bites her lip, her mood doing another somersault and turning sour. “There’s nothing to apologize for…”

“On the contrary. Of course I suspected that there was more to my brother’s… supposed death than met the eye, but I did not have concrete proof until you confirmed it. I did not anticipate… the impact it would – “

“It’s okay,” she says quietly. He falters. His eyes fall into his cup and he clears his throat. His face is carefully neutral.

“Nonetheless, I’m sorry you had to witness it.”

That is patently obvious. Molly shifts in her seat, feeling uncomfortable and guilty. She wishes she hadn’t seen it, too. She hates invading other people’s privacy, and for a man like him, it must have been hell to know that someone saw him at his most vulnerable.

The only way out of this situation is to redirect the conversation.

“How is he?”

Mycroft glances at her sharply.

“You must know something… Is he all right?” she asks again, imploringly. She’s been worried sick this past week, hoping against hope that Sherlock would honour his promise and get in touch with her somehow, and constantly being disappointed.

Mycroft regards her pensively for a long moment and then nods. “Of course. You helped save my brother’s life, it’s only fair that you should hear how he’s faring.”

She leans forward in anticipation.

“However, you must understand that I can’t tell you everything.”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation. “I just want to know if he’s all right. If he’s safe.”

He takes a sip of his tea. “He is as safe as he can be, under the circumstances. But as far as I know he is unharmed.”

Molly exhales in relief. “That’s… That’s good to know. Thank you.”

Mycroft leans back, watching her thoughtfully. Molly tries and fails not to feel uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Doctor Hooper,” he says eventually, his voice taking on a curiously officious and bland tone. “I must thank you for saving my brother’s life. I am indebted to you.”

Molly’s breath catches in her throat. The words are delivered in a manner that makes them a mockery, the tone and inflection underplaying their relevance. He speaks them as if they need to be said, but he isn’t entirely convinced they are true. If they were directed at John Watson, the doctor would have scoffed in outrage, convinced that Mycroft Holmes is an emotionally crippled worm.

But the words are spoken to Molly Hooper, who sees deeper and fuller, and who reads the uncaring tone as the smokescreen that it is. She’s not entirely sure what hides beneath it, though.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she mutters. “Sherlock is my friend… I would do anything to help him.”

To her surprise, he shifts in his seat and drops his gaze to his cup.

“Of that I have no doubt. It must have been a shock, though. My brother is not one to ask for help,” he comments flatly.

“Oh, but he asks for my help all the time,” says Molly in confusion. “I mean, he’s awful at it, makes it look like he’s bossing me around, but when you think about it, he only does it with very few people…  From the outside it seems as if he’s just using me, but it really means that he trusts me to do something for him and he can delegate the task to me so that he can focus on something more important…”

Molly falls silent. Mycroft’s face is impassive once more, but for a moment there she sees a flicker of emotion pass over it like a shadow. Oh. Oh! She’s put her foot in her mouth again!

“Oh! No, I didn’t mean it that way – I’m sure – “

“Doctor Hooper – “

“I didn’t mean to imply that he doesn’t trust you – oh, God, I’m so sorry – “

“Doctor Hooper,” he interrupts firmly, giving her a bitter smile. “You are in no way responsible for my relationship with my brother. It has always been… difficult.”

Molly blinks. What is he talking about? That isn’t what she is trying to say… Then it hits her. Her eyes widen and suddenly she’s able to see more clearly than she ever has before. She sees his hurt and resentment and she is overcome with the need to take it away. She can’t help DI Lestrade or John Watson, but she can try and help Mycroft Holmes.

“You’re wrong.”

“Sorry?”

“Your brother loves you,” she blurts out. His eyes snap to her and his mouth falls open in shock. Molly blushes, but soldiers on. “He _brags_ about you. He told me you were the most dangerous man I’d ever meet, for goodness’ sake! In Sherlock-speak that’s practically like saying ‘look how cool my big brother is’! He looks up to you…” she pauses, worrying out how to word what needs to be said next. “I think… I think he didn’t ask for your help straight away because he wanted to show you that he could do it on his own…”

A stunned silence settles over the room. Mycroft is speechless, mouth still slightly open, his forgotten cup of tea suspended in his hand, halfway lowered to the table. Molly realizes in horror that she’s been terribly out of line and is on the verge of apologizing, when he snaps out of his stupor with an awkward cough.

“You are… surprisingly insightful, Doctor Hooper,” he says blandly, putting the cup and the saucer back on the table.

“Ah… I’m so – “

“No, don’t apologize. You are right. I have allowed myself to become overly sentimental.”

Molly frowns. Didn’t he hear her just now?

“But thank you,” he continues, “For the voice of confidence. Even if you are romanticizing my brother’s regard for me.”

“I’m not romanticizing anything,” she answers, indignant.

“I’m sure you believe what you say, but you must admit that having known him all his life, I am more of an expert on my brother’s behaviour than you are…”

Molly clenches her teeth in mounting anger, incensed by his patronizing tone, but then the irritation disappears in a cloud of smoke as another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. He’s resentful. He feels threatened. By her of all people!

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to take your rightful place,” she says slowly, wanting him to understand. “A word of advice, though… If you didn’t smother him half as much as I suspect you do, he’d come to you more often.”

He doesn’t answer, too astonished to formulate a response. Molly looks at him sadly, with a mixture of hurt and compassion. He’s a bit like her, trying too much and always getting less because of it. Still, he shouldn’t be taking it out on her; it’s not her fault.

“I must be going,” she mutters, gathering her handbag, standing up and stepping towards the door without ever touching her tea. “Good bye.”

She walks out of the teashop with her shoulders hunched and her eyes on the ground. She doesn’t question her sadness – it’s just another drop in an already overflowing ocean.

*

Life moves on. Slowly, haltingly, but it does. Slowly for Molly, at least. For the rest of the world, Sherlock Holmes is already passé, the last of the articles lining the paper bins or buried in the obscurity of other newsworthy tidbits on Internet forums. For those who know – knew – him, it’s a bit more difficult.

But without Sherlock himself Molly doesn’t really interact with any of his other friends. Which is good, because she is not sure she could handle it without breaking down or revealing the secret. It’s a terrible burden, weighing her down, keeping her up at night with nightmares of John Watson’s defeated gaze disappearing into Tube tunnels, disembodied in the darkness like the Cheshire Cat’s toothy smile. But it’s not only John Watson who makes her feel guilty. Surprisingly, she finds herself coming back to the conversation with Mycroft Holmes. Stupidly, indescribably, she feels guilty for being the person whom Sherlock had asked for help. This makes her angry, because it was the only thing that made this whole ordeal bearable – to be able to tell herself that he trusted her enough to make her instrumental to his survival. Now it all feels tainted, and all because of the flash of pain on Mycroft Holmes’ stupid weasel face.

Summer stretches cold and rainy as Molly busies herself with work, staying after hours in the lab, doing research for the paper she’s been meaning to write for months, but never got round to it. When she’s not at the lab, she raids the online databases, downloading and printing papers by the dozen, to be read in her favourite armchair with a cup of hot chocolate and Toby’s purring body in her lap. A couple of days in, she runs into a dead end, having found an extremely promising article only to realize that it’s written entirely in Chinese. Molly is proud to say that she reads French and rudimentary Spanish, but Chinese, unfortunately, is not among her many talents. She fumes about the article for two days, indulging herself in her imperial righteous anger. Who in this day and age doesn’t translate their articles into English? Forget international recognition, but why limit the number of people who will benefit from your research – the patients, always the patients – only to those from your country?

She avoids Meena, too uncomfortable with the pitying glances. She doesn’t really have any other friends, and her mother leaves on a well-deserved package holiday to Egypt, happily escaping the coldest London summer seen in decades, so Molly becomes a recluse, alternating between home, work, and the library, barely speaking a word to anyone. She chases the loneliness away by working twice as hard on her paper, and filling in the rest with mind-numbing soap operas. She’s fine, she really is.

Until one day, around a month after her third meeting with Mycroft, her routine is broken by the arrival of the beautiful woman with her bespoke skirt suit, absent smile, and glinting BlackBerry.

“What’s your name?” Molly asks with a sigh as she settles in the backseat of the car that picked her up from Bart’s.

The other woman’s mouth twitches as she shoots her a mocking look. “Anthea,” she answers eventually, turning to her phone with a half-grin that speaks of an inside joke.

Molly shrugs. “Um, I suppose you already know my name then…”

Anthea snorts. “Yeah.”

“Right.”

The rest of the ride is filled with silence. Anthea busies herself with tapping at her BlackBerry, and Molly looks out the window, grimacing at the dreary weather, but having already given up tracking where she’s going as a lost cause. The truth is, she is a bit fed up with Mycroft’s MO, but she’s also relieved and excited at the prospect of being able to talk to someone who is in on the secret. Also, she is hoping that perhaps he will know something about how Sherlock is faring. She hasn’t heard a peep from the detective, despite his promise, and she’s not only worried, but also disappointed.

Anthea takes her to what looks like an abandoned, derelict clothing alteration shop hidden in a back alley. The shop window is dimmed with dirt, and the display consists of piles of dark coloured fabric and a single, old-fashioned, ornamental sewing machine. The glass and metal door creaks when pushed open, and the inside is as depressing as the promise: an empty room with fifties white and blue panelling on the walls and cracked white tiles on the floor. The place is swept clean, though, and in the room’s centre Mycroft Holmes sits at a white round table, just like the ones you see outside chic ice cream parlours, tending to a china tea set. When they come in, he stands up and gestures to the other chair with a pleasant smile.

“Have a seat, Doctor Hooper.”

“Where do you find these places?” she mutters inanely, sitting down. Her eyes follow Anthea as she disappears behind closed doors at the back of the shop.

“I have my ways,” he answers, seating himself across from Molly. “London is a multi-faceted city with many hidden places that just beg to be explored and put to good use.”

“In other words, you like having your secret meetings in fancy locations.”

His mouth gives an acceding twitch. “That’s one way of putting it. Tea?” When she nods, he prepares her a cup exactly the way she likes it, heroically not expressing his no doubt overwhelming disgust. “I have a sense of déjà vu.”

“Oh?”

“Once again I must apologize for my behaviour and once again I must thank you.”

Molly blinks, and then smiles. “It’s okay.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft hums, watching her. “I seem to have blundered the last time we met. I really am grateful for your help in saving my brother’s life. It was never my intention to cause you additional pain.”

“What? Sorry, I don’t – “

“You feel guilt because you think you’ve usurped my place. However, while I feel… saddened by my brother’s lack of trust, I am not so petty and selfish to feel jealous of the people who’ve earned it.”

Molly bites her lip, surprised by his frankness. She admires his strength; in his place she’d have given up long ago… or perhaps not. Caring is not something that you can switch off easily, it doesn’t come with a power-off button. It creeps up on you whether you like it or not, and it’s already too late when you’ve finally realized it’s there. She doesn’t pretend to understand what it must be like to care for a sibling. She is an only child; she never had anyone she was responsible for. But she knows the taste of unrequited feelings, and she imagines that it must be a hundred times worse when the focus of that unwanted affection is family instead of a stranger. With a stranger you can explain it to yourself: he is just not into me, it’s not my fault; I’m not his type; it’s just not meant to be, there is nothing I can do. But with family? What excuse do you have when you love a family member who just doesn’t love you back?

She suspects that’s exactly how Mycroft sees his relationship with Sherlock. He didn’t believe her the first time when she tried to tell him otherwise, and he’s not likely to believe her now. He thinks that his brother hates him. Still, Sherlock’s safety and well-being mean so much to him that he’s willing to delegate the task of keeping his younger brother safe to other – in his mind, better-suited – people, and Molly seems to have earned that privilege. It’s a humbling, but also an empowering thought.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she says after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. “He trusts you more than you think.”

A self-mocking glint enters his flat eyes. “Only when there is no alternative.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that. He’s stubborn, and he believes he’s infallible, just like Sherlock does; nothing she says will change his mind about this. She sighs into her cup of tea.

He clears his throat. “I arranged this meeting today because I would like to repay you for your actions – “

“You don’t owe me anything,” she says again, enunciating clearly, but his expression tells her he’s not hearing her. Still, she continues, “I did it all for Sherlock as a friend. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I don’t need anything from you.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure there is something that you need that I can procure for you.”

His smile is a touch condescending, and extremely smug, when he reaches into the satchel that she didn’t notice standing next to his chair, and takes out a dossier. He hands it over and she takes it on reflex. She can’t help but feel a bit curious.

Inside she finds several pages of densely printed text. She squints at the title and gasps.

“It’s… but how – what?”

It’s the Chinese article she’s been moaning about this past week, translated into English. She gapes at him with wide eyes. He inclines his head.

“It has come to my attention that you need this for your work. It was a matter of hours to have it translated.”

Molly is speechless. Who is this man? How on earth did he know about this? She didn’t mention it to anyone!

“How - ?”

The smile he gives her is a bit predatory. “I hope you understand now the extent of the repayment I have in mind, do you, Doctor Hooper?”

Molly considers him, then looks down at the article in her hands. She’s both overjoyed and extremely creeped out. She’s not sure if she wants him snooping around her, looking for things that she needs and he can give her. Isn’t there anything she can do to dissuade him…? It doesn’t look like he’ll desist, but she could redirect him somehow, couldn’t she?

Then she has an excellent idea.

“I know. I know what you can do to repay me,” she says, cringing over the concept, but knowing it’s a fair exchange. “I want to know how Sherlock’s doing. Nothing too detailed!” she adds quickly, noticing how his eyebrows shoot up. “I just need to know if he’s safe.”

Mycroft regards her thoughtfully, weighing his options. There’s a strange, almost resigned look in his eyes. Finally, he nods.

“Very well. I will keep you informed. But you need to understand that I won’t be able to divulge any particulars.”

“I understand,” Molly sighs in relief. “Thank you. It’s just... I’ve been worried sick, and he’s promised to keep in touch, but he hasn’t, and, well – “

“Of course. He does tend to be forgetful when he is extremely focused.”

Molly laughs. “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” On impulse, she reaches out her hand across the table between them. “So we have a deal then?”

Slowly, he clasps her hand and shakes it. His skin is warm and soft; he has the unblemished hands of an office-worker, but his grip is strong and confident, one more sign of the man behind it.

“We have a deal, Doctor Hooper.”

*

In the months that follow, Molly sees Mycroft Holmes more than a dozen of times.

She’s unable to establish any particular schedule to their secret exchanges; sometimes they happen on a weekday, others over the weekend; always without any prior indication or heads up; sometimes only two days apart, and others with three weeks passing without any sort of contact. There are several things that are constant, though. They always meet in a place of his choice, be it an old butchery or a modern art gallery, and the scenario is invariably the same. Molly is picked up by Anthea, who leads her to him with barely a word, and then they have a cup of tea whilst chatting about Sherlock, and sometimes branching into other topics as well. Afterwards, Anthea gives her a lift back to her flat.

The first two meetings are fairly short, and consist mostly of stilted pleasantries, Mycroft informing her vaguely about Sherlock’s welfare, and her thanking him and expressing her relief. The third time, though, Molly is having a bad day and she inadvertently stumbles into a rant. To her surprise, instead of mocking her, Mycroft commiserates.

“I find that I have much to say about incompetent colleagues,” he tells her with an annoyed sigh. “The number of times I had to clean up a mess after an imbecile who compromised an operation… Well, I say clean up… I leave that to others because I do so loathe legwork myself… But even so, it does awful things to my appetite.”

Molly coughs to cover a laugh. “Poor you.”

He gives her a sharp glance, but the lift of his eyebrows tells her he’s more amused than angry. “Don’t mock, Doctor Hooper. You try organizing an international coup and see how you fare when one of your operatives drops a tablet with crucial information down his loo.”

After that, it seems like a barrier between them has been breached. While they always return to the topic of Sherlock, their exchanges seem more like the catching up of acquaintances than a business transaction. Molly finds herself sharing stories about the more ridiculous Sherlock-related mishaps that have accumulated over the years, and in return he gives her accounts of his brother’s adventures during their childhoods. He has a talent for storytelling; his dry tone while relating hilarious events often reduces her to a giggly mess. At first she’s a bit self-conscious about it, but her laughter always induces a relaxed, self-satisfied air about him, so she decides to take it in stride.

It’s surprisingly easy, being in Mycroft’s company. There is much more to him than her initial diagnosis of permanent stiffness and an unhealthy dramatic flair. Oh, he’s still creepy, spicing their conversations with tidbits of intel about her life he shouldn’t know anything about, but he does so with a snarky sense of humour, making her laugh through her indignation.

“Really, Doctor Hooper,” he says one afternoon, “joking about the shape of a patient’s tumour with impressionable medical students hardly seems like professional behaviour.”

Molly blushes. “How did you – Oh, I asked them not to tell anyone!”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he assures her, eyes full of mirth. “I am a grown man. I can hardly go around proclaiming to derive humour from a phallic-shaped cell aberration. That would be awfully schoolboy of me.”

She giggles into her teacup. “Fair enough.”

“I can, however,” he continues in deadpan, “keep a photo for… blackmail purposes.”

He’s also frightfully intelligent and widely knowledgeable. She starts envying his eidetic memory when once, when she confesses that she’s having difficulties with her paper, he gets her back on track with a well-placed question that tells her he must have read the Chinese article before giving it to her. He seems to magically know when she has made a breakthrough in her research and celebrates it accordingly by bringing her favourite wine to one of their meetings.

“You shouldn’t have,” she protests shyly.

“Doctor Hooper, this is but such a small thing in exchange,” he tells her meaningfully, and she finds herself strangely disappointed. She pushes that thought away, and instead focuses on the upcoming conference. This brings her back to the beautiful suit that hangs in her wardrobe, still unworn.

“This reminds me, I never did thank you for the suit…”

“Sorry? Oh. Really, Doctor Hooper, it was my fault that you didn’t manage to buy it on your own; it was only polite of me to procure it for you.”

“Right,” she mutters, sipping her wine, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

There’s something else that changes over the course of their meetings. During their talks she passes glances at his face. From up close he seems younger, fresher, and somehow less intimidating. His eyes are animated, the skin around them smooth, and the spark that appears in them speaks of a man younger than he seems, unburdened by the weight of responsibility that normally clings to him like second skin. In those moments she can’t reconcile the crispness of his shirt, tie and jacket with the softness of his face; the fabrics are alien, tacked on like a suit of armour, ageing him into a construct of power, an intimidating gentleman of a certain age that he has not yet grown into. She wonders how long he’s been dressing like his grandfather, forcing the world to treat him more seriously. Sometimes, she dares to imagine him out of the waistcoat, his tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. The picture her mind provides her with is disconcerting; it feels obscene, somehow, like peeping through a stranger’s window in the middle of the night. Even if it’s just as alluring.

It’s fairly early on in their meetings that she notices that she finds him attractive. The realization startles her at first, but she doesn’t dwell on it. It’s nothing like the burning desire she used to feel for Sherlock, but then again Mycroft is a different type of man altogether. He’s no longer exactly young, isn’t particularly fit, and can’t be described by any of the romantic labels that fit Sherlock so well. Instead, he is just this side of plain, his dark hair is thinning, and his nose is too long. And yet, she finds herself eyeing the moles on his cheekbone and noticing his long-fingered hands. The attraction is a low thrum, a more or less innocent appreciation for another human being, nothing to fuss about, so she simply dismisses it as natural. She doesn’t feel any guilt for admiring his figure in the dark pinstriped suit, nor does she reproach herself for liking the scent of his cologne. It’s not like it’s going to lead to anything more involved. Besides, she’s noticed the wedding ring on his finger, even though it’s on the wrong hand and it might not be a wedding ring anyway. He doesn’t strike her as gay, but then again her gay radar is nothing to go on (if Jim from IT is any indication). Either way, it doesn’t matter and she doesn’t really dwell on it all that much.

Molly quickly finds that she looks forward to the times she sees him. Their meetings are the highlights of her weeks, even though their schedule is unpredictable and she never knows in advance when she’s going to be picked up. Every time she sees the familiar black car, though, she feels a spike of joy, not only because she’s happy to hear about Sherlock, but also because she genuinely, surprisingly, enjoys Mycroft’s acerbic, sarcastic company.

The truth of the matter is, she likes him.

This feeling is light and happy, the sort you experience when you unexpectedly meet a new friend. It’s possibly the greatest feeling in the world, the genuine, completely natural, almost instant affection for another person. Molly finds it absolutely giggle-worthy that she should feel this way about Mycroft Holmes of all people, but then again she is the woman who had a crush on Sherlock, and then went out with James Moriarty. In the end, she decides to accept it at face value, simply because it just feels so nice.

In the meantime, her life gets back on track. She keeps in touch with Meena, who now often comments on her cheerfulness with a happy smile.

“You seem really well lately,” her friend tells her over coffee one particularly dreary afternoon in November. “Anything good happen?”

Molly shrugs. “Nothing, really. I just feel… I don’t know. You know how there are times when one second you feel so stressed out and restless, and then you snap and it goes away, and you just feel light and okay, even though none of your problems are actually gone?”

“Hmm, yeah, but it never lasts,” Meena grumbles. “Quiet before the storm, and all that.”

“Well, aren’t you the ray of sunshine!” Molly laughs. “I actually don’t care. If I worry about the future then I’ll just spoil the present with my gloominess.”

She spies an elegant young woman on the other side of the café, wearing a black pencil skirt that hugs her hips and an ecru silk blouse that shimmers in the fluorescent light. Molly eyes the elaborate bow tied artfully around the woman’s neck, and knows immediately that this is the kind of blouse she should wear to the conference. It’s beautiful and elegant, and yet retains that little bit of frivolity that Molly loves to include in her wardrobe. Perhaps there’s yet hope for her. But could she really pull it off? Wouldn’t the blouse, so saturated with colour and radiance, look ridiculous against Molly’s sallow complexion and mousy hair?

Well, no use speculating until she’s tried one on.

She has the chance to do that a week later when she meets up with her mum for their mall trek. It doesn’t go quite as well as planned, though.

“Say _what_? How can a flimsy piece of cloth be so expensive?!” Andrea yells in an outraged whisper, and Molly decides not to mention the fact that the blouse, while quite expensive, won’t be much of a chink in the figures of her bank account. A good salary, lack of significant needs and an ingrained frugality have ensured that Molly has a surplus of zeroes that she has no idea how to use. She supposes indulging herself with an expensive piece of fabric every now and then won’t make much of a difference.

Even so, she decides that buying it with her mother present is not a very good idea.

The problem is, she is self-conscious enough to desperately need an informed second opinion. With her mum out of the question, there’s only Meena left, and she’s temporarily busy and unavailable, and besides, her style is too flamboyant for what Molly has in mind (that horrible overblown Christmas outfit, oh God).

She has a flash of brilliance the next time she’s sitting in the backseat of a black sedan next to the immaculately dressed Anthea, on her way back from a meeting with Mycroft. Molly’s in a particularly good mood today; the meeting place was breathtaking this time – a modern art gallery with a new, amazing installation. In order to reach Mycroft’s little secluded table, she had to cross a dark corridor with rain falling from the ceiling in a downpour, but if she moved slowly enough, motion sensors turned off the water flow over her head and she could pass through as if she was holding an invisible umbrella. Later, Mycroft told her that the exhibition was not yet opened to the public, but he’d thought she might enjoy it regardless. The way he smiled with his eyes when he said it made her feel a bit warm and fuzzy inside.

The feeling lingers after they have made their goodbyes and Molly is getting a lift back to her flat. It’s a happy feeling, one that inspires boldness and daring. It’s funny that one Holmes should give her self-confidence when the other just took it all away.

Fortified and a bit fearless, Molly turns to Anthea with a smile. “I, um… I love your dress,” she mentions in feigned nonchalance.

The other woman passes her an incredulous glance. “Thank you,” she says eventually, eyes glued back to the BlackBerry.

“Your clothes are always so beautiful,” Molly can’t help but gush a bit. She cringes when she sees Anthea’s finely shaped eyebrow rise in amusement. “Um… Do you get any time off?”

The other woman suddenly can barely contain her mirth. “Yeah, lots,” she drawls.

A bit discomfited, Molly soldiers on. “Listen, I was wondering, maybe someday, when you’re not very busy – “

“I’m sorry, I just don’t swing that way.”

Molly blinks, then realizes what’s just happened and groans. “Oh, God, no! I wasn’t - ! I wasn’t coming on to you!”

Anthea chuckles. “Good. Dealing with Himself in a snit is such a hassle.”

“What?”

Himself in a snit? Is she talking about Mycroft? And if so, why on earth would Mycroft Holmes be in a snit over Anthea thinking Molly was hitting on her?

“Oh, he is insanely territorial when it comes to some things, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Anthea answers flippantly, throwing her a smug look.

And then it dawns on her.

Oh. Not gay then.

Molly experiences a sudden surge of... _disappointment_?

She would have thought Mycroft had a little bit more class than to be involved with a subordinate!

But then Anthea nonchalantly raises her right, perfectly manicured hand to stifle a yawn, and Molly notices the gold ring adorning her ring finger.

It’s identical to Mycroft’s.

Another wave of unpleasant emotion washes over her body. Oh, indeed.

Well. She certainly wasn’t expecting that, was she?

“Oh,” she says, her voice pitifully small.

“So,” Anthea gets back on track, as always self-assured and slightly mocking. “What were you doing when you weren’t coming on to me?”

“Um, well…” she hesitates, because suddenly she doesn’t really feel like asking, but then steels herself, and blunders on. “See, I was wondering if you could help me out… I’m not very good with… clothes and… well, I need a second opinion and – “

“You want to go to the shops?” asks Anthea cheerfully. “Sure, no problem.”

“ – um and – what? Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Haven’t been shopping for a while. How about this Friday?”

“Oh, um, sure. Right, okay.”

“Good,” says Anthea, and then turns back to her phone, the matter settled.

Molly, still reeling, looks out the window and tries to compose herself. So Mycroft and Anthea… Well, that’s certainly… unexpected, but she supposes that they do go well together, both so self-confident and smart and – but _married_?

She has no idea why she feels so strongly about Mycroft and Anthea’s personal life, but the news has her stomach in knots. It’s an ugly feeling, one that she’s intimate with. It’s envy mixed with hopelessness. It’s born out of the realization that everyone you meet already has someone special, and you’re the only one who is left alone. Of course Mycroft is married, how could he not be? It was stupid of her to assume that he wasn’t based on the placement of his ring. After all, the English way of wearing one’s wedding ring is not the only correct one; in Poland, for example, people wear them on their right hands.

What is most upsetting, though, is not the fact that they’re married. Molly doesn’t think she’s the kind of person who would begrudge others their happiness. It’s nice to know that Mycroft is not quite as lonely as she thought he was. The thing is, though…

The thing is…

Shaking her head, Molly forces that errant, dangerous thought into the back of her mind. After all, it’s no use dwelling on things that are out of your reach. She has had her share of it with one Holmes already.

Repeating the process would be pure masochism, indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a need chapter! And a monster of a one, too! :) Thanks everyone for reading this story, I am really happy that you like it. :) Hopefully you won't need to wait for he next one quite as long as for this one...  
> Enormous thanks go to my amazing beta Hope Tang, and the even more amazing Britpicker, Kate221b. :*

**Part Three**

The trip to the shops is a disaster.

It is possibly one of the worst ideas Molly has ever had in her life. Anthea has taken her to a high-end boutique and is now ignoring her in favour of smirking at her BlackBerry. Molly hovers beside her in the sterile room, feeling the shop clerks’ judgmental gazes on the back of her rapidly reddening neck.

“Um…” she ventures shyly, trying not to appear as lost as she feels. “Could you, um…”

Anthea spares her a glance and throws lightly, “Have a look around. It’s one of my favourite places.”

“Right.”

Deciding that there’s nothing else she can do, Molly ambles to a rack of off-white button-up blouses, the hangers placed exactly one inch apart, so perfect that she’s afraid to take one to examine the blouse and disturb the order. Her hand flutters over one silk sleeve, trying to angle it so that it’s more visible without changing the position of the hanger, but it’s fruitless. Chagrined, Molly ducks her head, feeling her face heat up under the relentless scrutiny of the  shop clerks. A glance at Anthea tells her that the other woman seems just as uninterested and indifferent to Molly’s discomfort as she was a second ago, so there’s really no point in trying to get her attention.

She wishes she was more confident, accustomed to high-end places where people are supposed to treat the wait staff as non-entities, but it’s impossible. She’s spent her entire childhood listening to accounts from the other side: her mum has worked as a shop clerk of one kind or another for most of her adult life. Molly has heard countless anecdotes about stupid or obnoxious customers and their pretentiousness and lack of fashion sense. She can easily imagine the thoughts of the two uniformed women standing behind the counter, pretending not to watch her every move. They’re probably exchanging smirks behind her back, communicating things like: “is she going to spend all her salary on a blouse?”, “she obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing”, or “look at her trousers, where did she get them, in a second-hand?” Molly doesn’t begrudge them their fun; she knows that there’s not much to focus on when your job consists of standing around all day and waiting until someone decides to venture inside. It’s especially bad when you’re working at a shop that most people tend to avoid. Still, it’s extremely uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of their curiosity.

Anthea is not helping at all. She’s glued to her BlackBerry, deft fingers flying over the keys as if she had emerged from the womb with the phone in her hand. Molly spies the glint of the wedding ring on the other woman’s hand and for several seconds she stares at it in morbid fascination. What is it like to be married to Mycroft Holmes? It must be both a harrowing and exhilarating experience. Is he always so prim and proper? Molly wonders if he has a special domestic mode: a set of comfortable lounging suits, or perhaps a parsley dressing gown worn over pinstriped silk pyjamas and with leather slippers? Or maybe a tasteful, chequered cardigan? With a silk cravat with a silver pin right in the middle. Molly imagines a predator, powerful but reclining, lounging comfortably in a dimly lit library with masculine furnishings and the scent of leather polish and cigar smoke. The vision is so ridiculous that it almost forces a giggle out of her throat. Would it be possible to somehow get used to the drama surrounding Mycroft Holmes if one were married to him? Would the sacramental “I do” familiarize him?

With a start, she notices that Anthea has stopped texting and is now looking at her with a raised eyebrow. A slow blush rises in Molly’s cheeks. She’s startled, and, frankly, a bit mortified, at the direction her thoughts have taken.

“Have you found anything interesting?” asks Anthea, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Um. No, not really…”

Anthea pauses for a beat, then asks expectantly, “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Well, um, I was thinking about a… a smart blouse?”

“A button-up? Short-sleeved or long-sleeved? White? Colourful? Classic or with a bite?” Anthea fires questions like a machine gun, a bit as if she were pressing for a specific answer. Molly feels even more wrong-footed.

“Um, I’m not… I’m not actually sure yet, I was really, you know, hoping to find something nice…?”

Anthea fixes her with a bland, disappointed look. “Oh, I see.” The words sound like a dismissal. Molly suddenly has the impression that she has just failed an important test.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them, only to be interrupted by a beep from Anthea’s BlackBerry. Molly suppresses a grimace as the other woman immediately loses whatever focus she had on their conversation and returns to texting. Defeated, and feeling slightly ridiculous, Molly walks over to another rack, but her heart is not in it and she’s not able to fully concentrate on the clothes. There is a knot of frustration tightening in her belly, and her mood plummets even further.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to cut this a little short,” calls Anthea a moment later, click-clicking her way over to Molly, neither her face nor her tone betraying any regret or empathy. “I’ve been summoned.”

Molly’s insides do an impression of a sky dive. Anthea gives her a careless nod, turns on her heel, and nonchalantly walks out of the boutique, behaving as if she wasn’t abandoning her to the wolves. Molly stares after her, aghast. She’s not sure whether it’s an actual emergency, or Anthea simply lied to her to get away, and if she did, Molly has no idea what she has done wrong. Frozen in her humiliation, for a moment Molly has no idea what to do. Should she stay and pretend that she’s actually browsing for something, or should she just give up and leave? Her mood is so black that she’s really in no state to go gallivanting in shops far over her price range. But she can’t always depend on other people for help; she should be able to do this on her own. It’s her lack of self-esteem that’s the most embarrassing thing about this situation. She’s a grown woman; she shouldn’t feel so self-conscious about shopping, for goodness’ sake! And yet… She can’t help but long to go back into her comfort zone. Fortunately, her decision is made for her when she spies one of the clerks heading towards her with a disdainful “can I help you, madam?” on her lips.

Cheeks flaming, she flees.

*

The next two weeks are a deep black pitch of despair. Molly’s research hits a dead end and she loses whatever shreds of self-esteem she ever had.  The end of the month is the deadline for the conference abstracts, which comes and goes without her submitting anything, and Molly spends the first day of December binging on Supernatural and steadfastly ignoring the pile of meticulously prepared notes lying on her desk. Toby chooses the stack of papers as his new favourite lounging place, perching chicken-like, with his front elbows pointing upwards, on the translated copy of the Chinese article that Mycroft had given her all those months ago. She doesn’t even bother crawling off the sofa to shoo him away.

The next evening, a black sedan interrupts her whilst she’s trudging resignedly back from Bart’s after a spectacularly depressing day. The car rolls into her line of view just as she’s contemplating whether to buy a crapload of chocolate bars at Tesco or to indulge herself in some more refined comfort food – perhaps macaroons? – and instantly makes her mood ten times worse than it already is. She feels dread pool in her stomach as the driver opens the door of the car for her, expecting to see Anthea. What she finds instead almost sweeps the ground out from underneath her feet.

“Do get in, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft Holmes drawls pointedly from the farther seat. “I haven’t got all night.”

Molly scrambles inside, flopping on her bottom with an “omph!”. The driver closes the door behind her and she’s left alone with Mycroft, who looks, as always, ridiculously dignified in a grey suit and a dark blue tie.

“Is something wrong?” she asks worriedly.

He frowns. “Why would it be?”

“You’ve never picked me up before.”

“Ah. Well, there is a simple explanation for that: I value expediency. My car was closer to your location than my assistant’s.”

“Oh, right,” she mutters, feeling a bit foolish. “Sorry.”

Mycroft lifts his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment, moving on to business. “We’ll be arriving in two minutes. I must warn you, though, that today’s meeting place is a bit dreary. It was all I could procure on short notice.”

“That’s all right. I work in a morgue. You can’t get much drearier than that,” Molly jokes. “Why the short notice, though?”

Mycroft sniffs. “I have a direct message for you today.”

“Oh? R-really?” Her voice betrays her surprise. Is Sherlock truly sending her a message?

“Indeed. It seems our mutual acquaintance has finally deduced we are in contact with each other and he has decided to use me as his personal carrier pigeon.”

Molly blinks, her mind providing her with an image of a pigeon in a waistcoat, his dark grey feathers ruffled in indignation. She unsuccessfully tries to cover her snort with a cough.

“Is there something funny, Doctor Hooper?” Mycroft comments primly.

“N-no,” she manages. “Sorry. What, um, what did he want you to tell me?”

“I believe he wants you to stop worrying,” Mycroft says carefully.

Molly blinks again, this time suspiciously. That doesn’t sound like Sherlock at all. “He called me a moron, didn’t he? Because I worry?”

Mycroft’s lips twist into a smirk. “Your perceptiveness is uncanny, Doctor Hooper.”

“Well! You can tell him he’s an idiot for making me worry. If he’d kept his promise, I wouldn’t need to pester you for information.”

Mycroft’s smirk evens out into a neutral expression and he looks down to check his phone. “Ah, yes. We’re here.”

Molly looks out the tinted window. The car turns into an underground car park. Only, as she soon finds out, there are no other cars in the vast, concrete-walled space. A garage door closes behind them with a foreboding thud, and they glide almost noiselessly across parking places, alphanumerical orientation signs flashing in the car’s headlights. They stop next to C16, where a small table with two chairs sits against the raw, dark grey wall of one of the supporting columns.

“You weren’t joking about the dreary bit,” Molly comments dryly. “This is truly ridiculous. Couldn’t we meet in your office?”

“My office is far too conspicuous,” he retorts blandly, before exiting the car.

Molly shakes her head. “Because clearing a sodding car park to have _tea_ is not conspicuous at all,” she mutters under her breath, and follows suit, and almost barrels into Mycroft as he comes around from the other side of the car, his hand outstretched. He quickly steps aside with a curiously pinched expression. Confused, Molly closes the door behind her. The sound echoes in all directions, startling her. “Um… Isn’t it a bit counterintuitive to have a secret meeting in a place where the voice carries so much?” she asks quietly, looking around.

Mycroft sighs with impatience. “I assure you, this location is quite secure. Please, have a seat.”

It takes all of her willpower not to roll her eyes at him and at the little table for two, with the plain china tea set and a plate of biscuits. Exasperated, and a bit tired of the drama, she quickly sits down. Noticing that Mycroft is not doing the same, she twists her head up to see him lingering right behind her chair with his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Is there something wrong?” she asks worriedly.

Before his face clears, Molly sees him twist his lips into a grimace of distaste. “Nothing at all,” he says evenly, sitting across from her. “Since pleasantries are quite lost on you, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Molly frowns a bit, not understanding, but dismisses it. “So, is there any other message from Sherlock?”

“I have relayed the… gist of it, I believe,” he answers, pouring the tea.

“Really? He didn’t say anything else? Nothing at all?”

“The message was sent, as is my brother’s custom, via text. It was necessarily succinct.”

“Oh. I see.” Only, she really doesn’t. What is the point of arranging this whole situation if what he has to say has already been covered in the car? She stares at him across the table and finds that she cannot read him at all. Discomfited, she blames the dim, artificial light for her lack of insight.

“It has come to my attention that you have not submitted your abstract for the conference you were planning to attend,” he says suddenly, derailing her thoughts. “Might I ask why?”

Molly feels a pang of panic, “H-how, how do you even know? No, never mind. Sorry, of course you know.”

“Hmm,” he hums expectantly.

“Uh. Well. It wasn’t any good, was it?” she hedges. “There was really no point.”

“Hmm.” This time, she’s sure she hears disapproval in his tone.

Molly looks away. She didn’t submit the sodding abstract because she was in too bad of a mood to finish it in time. Now, under Mycroft’s scrutinizing, judging gaze, she feels like an utter failure. It’s the first time since their initial meeting that he makes her feel like a stupid little girl, and the resulting shame seeps into her bones like poison.

“I did not intend to offend you, Doctor Hooper. I simply wish to express my regret. Though perhaps now you might be persuaded to submit an abstract of the paper to the European Congress of Pathology instead.”

Molly gawks at him. “What?!”

He lifts a single eyebrow. “I have reviewed some of your previous work and I believe the Congress would benefit from your presence.”

“I’m never going to be accepted to speak at the Congress!” she cries. “Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I’m really nothing special. I’m not brilliant like you or Sherlock. And it’s fine. It’s fine.”

Mycroft drinks a sip of his tea, puts the cup back in the saucer, and leans back, all the time regarding her like a strange specimen. It’s a bit unnerving, because it reminds her a lot of how Sherlock used to look at her when she said something silly. “You give yourself far too little credit where your research is concerned,” he says eventually.

“You give me too much,” she retorts sourly.

“Your lack of self-esteem is really quite fascinating. And, frankly, a bit annoying.”

“Annoying! What?!” she cries, instantly moved from self-pity to outrage. Who does he think he is, for heaven’s sake?! Before she can start an argument, though, Molly hears steps echoing around them. It’s a distinct click-click of heels approaching their table. Molly tenses in dread.

“Excuse me, sir,” comes Anthea’s voice before the woman herself appears from behind a column. “I am sorry to interrupt,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.

 “Yes?” asks Mycroft, a small tightening of his brows betraying his impatience.

“The Prime Minister wishes to speak with you immediately,” Anthea reports in a bored tone, barely glancing up from her BlackBerry. Mycroft sighs resignedly and nods.

“Fine. Please inform him I will meet him in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Molly barely registers their dispassionate exchange, too busy staring at their rings. They really are identical: plain, made of yellow gold, slightly rounded, and worn on the ring finger of the right hand. Something twists inside of her, making her already abysmal mood plummet even further. Anthea doesn’t even spare her a glance before leaving, heels clicking away. It probably doesn’t even occur to her to consider the situation strange. If Molly were in her shoes, she would feel worried and insanely jealous if her husband kept having tea with another woman, but for Anthea, Molly definitely doesn’t register as a threat. Why would she?

When she turns back to the table, Mycroft is frowning, but then his face clears and morphs into an indulgent smirk.

“You think I am married to my assistant,” he comments dryly.

Molly starts and then feels her cheeks heat up. “How - ?”

“You’ll find that much of my brother’s science of deduction is the result of my tutorials. You glanced at my right hand, and then at hers in quick succession, before making a particularly sour expression. The only possible explanation is that you think we are married and you find it distasteful for some reason. Might I ask why?”

Molly’s face is flaming. “Ah – “

“Ah, I see. You find a powerful man making his wife be his assistant to be sexist.”

For a wild second she considers telling him that he’s way off the mark, but seeing the shock on his face is not worth the consequences.

“I assure you, her position is quite enviable and she has worked very hard to obtain it.” He pauses and lifts his eyebrows. “Also, we are not married.”

Molly blinks. “But – The rings – “

“A coincidence,” he explains succinctly.

“Ah,” she squeaks, completely thrown.

“Do drink up, Doctor Hooper,” he comments mildly. “The tea is getting cold.”

Discomfited and embarrassed, she complies. Feeling like an idiot certainly doesn’t blend well with the treacherous taste of relief.

She reaches out for her tea.

“As for the other matter,” Mycroft continues, “I do believe it is completely unnecessary, as I’m sure you can do fine on your own once you put your mind to it, but I suppose a little bit of help would not be unwise.”

Molly gives him a glance over her cup. “What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he takes out a pen and a business card from his inner pocket and scribbles something down on the back of it. He passes the card to her and she’s surprised to see a phone number.

“If you’re uncertain about a fashion choice, you may send me a photograph and I’ll try to advise you to the best of my ability,” he says simply.

She almost chokes. “You – You want to give me fashion tips?!”

He raises an eyebrow. “I do have some interest in the area,” he says with a huff.

Molly gapes. And what she sees makes her reality flip upside down.

He is serious. Genuinely serious. He’s also a bit ticked off that she’s not immediately taking him seriously.

Mycroft Holmes. British government. Most dangerous man she’s ever met. Spy extraordinaire (probably). A diabolical grey eminence (most definitely).

Offering to help Molly Hooper buy clothes.

It’s so ridiculous she forgets to laugh. For a while she even forgets to breathe. Then she enters a curious plane of existence reminiscent of hysteria. She eyes his perfectly tailored suit and dandy, well-matched accessories and has to concede that he has a point: for all his ridiculousness, he does know how to dress with flair. But is she prepared for Mycroft Holmes to be giving her fashion advice? Surely it can’t be worse than Meena’s. True, he is a bit of a peacock, but his taste leans towards the conservative and traditional, not the needlessly flamboyant, so perhaps he does know what he’s doing…

The offer is actually quite tempting. And… nice. To think that he’s willing to go to such lengths for her… It’s heart warming.

“But… why?” she asks eventually.

“Consider it another instalment in repaying my debt to you.”

Oh. Right.

“Okay,” she says, bludgeoning the sting of disappointment that interrupted her hilarity. “You do realize it’s completely ridiculous, don’t you?”

“What is?”

“Getting fashion advice over text.”

“I usually prefer to call directly, but it’s difficult to view photographs whilst talking over the phone.”

“No, I mean – remote fashion police?”

“Ah,” he nods. “Well, that’s the best I can offer you, Doctor Hooper. I’m afraid appearing in public together would be inadvisable.”

She sobers up. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being an idiot,” she mutters bitterly.

He leans back and regards her, face impassive. “Hmm,” he says, considering.

“Anyway, thank you. I really appreciate it,” she smiles sincerely. She really is grateful. It might be ridiculous, but it’s far better than her other options.

He inclines his head. “You’re welcome.”

Later, when she’s lying in bed in the evening, programming his number into her mobile under “Remote Fashion Police”, with Toby purring into her ear from her pillow, she thinks that objectively it’s quite embarrassing to be asking Mycroft Holmes, the man behind the British government, the most dangerous man she’s ever met, for help in choosing skirts and blouses. She ponders it for a moment and then shrugs. It doesn’t feel embarrassing; when she thinks about it, it’s actually kind of nice.

Besides, he was the one who offered and she’s quite certain she’s past being surprised by Mycroft’s ridiculous ways.

*

Until, that is, she discovers he’s the king of the CCTV.

It happens the first time she decides to ask for his fashion advice, just two days after he offered. She decides to start small, so she ambles into her favourite shop looking for a nice, casual blouse. After all, she doesn’t have to worry about an impending conference, so she might as well test Mycroft’s fashion sense on something plain.

Too embarrassed to take pictures out in the open, she gathers two of her choices and heads towards the changing room, where she surreptitiously snaps shots of the two blouses with her camera phone and then sends them off to Mycroft’s number.

 

The response is almost instant.

_If your aim is to look like a ready-to-pluck Nabokov heroine, do go ahead with the first. As for the second, a slightly better choice, if only it weren’t so depressingly boring._

Molly blinks at her phone, and then snorts indignantly. The first blouse does look a bit like Lolita material, but seriously, it’s cute and feminine! And what’s wrong with the second top? It’s a nice, steady colour, and the lacy pattern gives it a special something; there’s nothing boring about it! Still, she wanted his advice, and it would be rude to ignore it the first chance she got. She takes both tops back to where she took them from, and turns to look for something else.

Almost immediately, her eyes are drawn to a particular black top with the print of a cat’s head adorned with a crescent moon. Grinning, she grabs it and presses it to her front in marvel. It’s Luna from Sailor Moon!

 

 

To her surprise, her phone beeps again.

_Absolutely not. Put it back this instant._

She stares at the text and then at the kitten top. She hasn’t sent him a picture of _that,_ has she?

Another beep.

_I am serious, Doctor Hooper. If you value my advice at all, you will put it away. And I assure you that if you ever feel the need to come back for it, you will find it gone, as I will personally see to it that every such item in this particular chain is turned to dust._

How can he text so fast? And what on earth is he talking about…?

 _I don’t understand,_ she types into her mobile one-handed, frowning at the kitten top she’s still holding up by the hanger. She looks around, but doesn’t see anything suspicious. The shop is a bit crowded, but all of the customers and clerks are minding their own business and no one is paying her any attention.

Her phone beeps again.

_Let me spell it out for you, then. On no account is that atrocity allowed to be anywhere near your person. You will now kindly put it away and remove yourself from this excuse of a boutique, or else I am not above threats. I hear Siberia is lovely this time of year._

Molly bursts into laughter. He’s threatening to have her sent to Russia over a kitten print T-shirt? Is he insane?

_I was wrong. You’re not the fashion police. You’re a fashion fascist. Or fashion FBI. Are you watching me on CCTV or something? (And the shirt is cute, thank you very much! :P)_

It takes him less than a second to reply, but his text wipes the silly grin straight off her face.

_No, it isn’t. And yes, I am._

It feels like having a bucket of ice water poured over her head. Can he really be watching…? Truly? She looks around, searching for hidden cameras, and finds several. Any of them could be pointed straight at her, and she would never know, because they are cleverly disguised beneath innocuous plastic domes. Spooked, she puts the kitten top back, shrinks nervously into herself and scurries out of the shop, flinching when she almost collides with someone on her way out. Once in the passage, and amongst throngs of other mall-dwellers, she relaxes, before realizing that it’s probably not the one shop that’s being monitored, but the whole shopping centre.

Her phone rings before she can have a full-blown panic attack.

Incoming call from “Remote Fashion Police”. Unnerved, Molly picks up.

“H-hello?”

“I apologize.” Mycroft’s voice is honey sweet. “It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” she mutters, feeling a bit hysterical.

“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully. “I don’t understand. You never appeared to be moved by my methods before, and yet your reaction to a benign bit of surveillance has you on tenterhooks. Would you mind explaining this to me, Doctor Hooper?”

Molly decides it’s best to sit down, so she finds an empty bench and plops down, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and taking a deep breath. “You know that TV series, _The Last Enemy_?” It’s a particularly chilling mini-series depicting the far-reaching consequences of the government having too much information about the state’s citizens.

“…I am aware of it, yes.”

“Well, I watched it yesterday. Let’s just say this… surveillance thing… hit a little bit too close to home.”

“Ah,” says Mycroft, adding a cluck of his tongue as a sign of displeasure. “That piece of television is giving me undue grief and it’s making my job much more difficult than it should be. For once, it’s wildly exaggerated. It’s not all quite as sinister as it appears, believe me. This is the United Kingdom, not some totalitarian dystopia.”

Molly snorts. “You do recall that Orwell was British? And Aldous Huxley, too, actually.”

“No matter,” he scoffs. “What you need to know is that I did not mean anything untoward by watching you on the shop’s CCTV. I simply thought it would facilitate our exchange.”

The whole situation is degenerating from scary to ridiculous at an alarming rate.

“Is that what you do all day, then? Watch people on CCTV?”

“I do have a job, Doctor Hooper,” he chides. “I have other people to do it for me.”

“Of course,” she laughs, then asks curiously, “Do you have everyone followed?”

“Pretty much everyone of importance,” he answers easily.

“So I am of some importance, then?”

“But of course.”

That makes her pause. It’s a very strange feeling: on the one hand, it’s kind of nice to be a person of importance to Mycroft Holmes, but on the other, he expresses that by observing her through security cameras. Thoroughly disturbed, she decides it’s a draw. Ridiculous, ridiculous man.

“So let me get this straight. You watched me on security footage to make our fashion thing easier?”

“Your powers of perception are as sharp as ever.”

“You do realize that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done?”

His response is immediate. “I resent that. I’m sure I can do much better.”

That earns him a full blown giggle. She doesn’t even attempt to control herself, it’s useless. She just doubles over and lets the mirth overcome her. When it eventually passes, she’s surprised that he’s still on the line with her.

“I hope I dispelled any discomfort you might have felt,” he says in deadpan.

“Ah, well… Actually, not really. Do you have me followed everywhere?”

“Your surveillance status is quite high. But let me assure you, it’s nothing invasive.”

“What does that even mean?!” she cries, exasperated.

“It means that as long as I am behind the camera, neither your person nor your privacy will ever be threatened,” he answers firmly. “There is nothing to alarm you, Doctor Hooper. You are as safe as you can possibly be in this country.”

Molly blinks, all of her fright and indignation gone in an instant. His words are strange; not entirely on topic, as if he were talking about something slightly different. And his tone, forceful, insistent, sounds a bit odd, a bit… desperate.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, tentative.

“I’m sorry?”

“Something’s wrong. Am I in danger?”

There’s a minute pause. “Didn’t I just emphatically explain to you that you are not?”

“You wouldn’t feel the need if there wasn’t a reason. So, am I in danger?” She’s surprised by how calm she actually is.

He sighs. She can swear he is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Doctor Hooper, I can give you my word that you will not come to any harm, under no circumstances, as long as I am alive.”

There’s a pang in her chest. She doesn’t want to interpret it, but she knows what it is all the same. It’s a bit of longing, a tad of gratitude, a hefty dose of awe and surprise, and a large dollop of something that’s better remaining unnamed. His aim is accomplished. She feels safe. She feels protected.

There’s nothing else she can say in this situation.

“…Thank you.”

“…You’re welcome.”

The silence that follows is not as uncomfortable as it should be.

“I trust you’ll be able to continue your shopping?” he says eventually.

“Oh, God. All right, okay, as long as you don’t ridicule my choices.”

“I have only your best interest in mind.”

“I’m sure.”

“I believe we can continue over text? I am quite busy, you know.”

“Oh!” she cries, embarrassed. Of course he’s busy! “Sorry! I didn’t mean to hog your time! It’s fine, we can do it another time – “

“I am not quite so busy that I can’t afford a pleasant distraction. In fact, I rather enjoy it. Besides, as a civil servant, I find it is my duty to rid the British society of questionable fashion sense.”

She laughs. “Fair enough. Texting it is.”

“Good luck, Doctor Hooper,” he says genially, and then disconnects.

*

Over the next few weeks she sends him several photographs, some of them deliberately ridiculous, and giggles over his comments to the confusion of the sales clerks. When their exchanges ultimately turn a bit more serious, he is surprisingly helpful. His texts, always a bit dry, nonetheless manage to steer her in the direction of several very satisfying purchases. Her wardrobe is enriched by a couple of very fetching blouses and two elegant cardigans perfect for the increasingly chilly weather.

In the weeks coming up to Christmas, they meet three times, and each time it is Mycroft who greets her when she opens the door of the sleek car that picks her up. Molly finds this change in their routine quite pleasant, as it considerably extends the time she spends in Mycroft’s company and it is much nicer to spend a car ride with him than with Anthea’s condescending smirk. It’s perhaps a bit too pleasant, judging by the nervous energy thrumming in her body whenever she sees an approaching black sedan. She explains it to herself by the fact that sitting next to each other in the backseat of a car seems much more intimate than having tea at a table set up in ridiculous locations. Even though Mycroft manages to be as dignified as ever, seeing him reclining against the leather upholstery, with his trusty umbrella at his side, gives her a strange feeling of domesticity. It’s as if witnessing him do such a mundane thing as traveling by car finally establishes him as an ordinary human being in her mind.

What’s a bit alarming, though, is the fact that several times Molly goes out shopping without the intention to buy anything, but to have an excuse to exchange texts with Mycroft. When Christmas and New Year’s Eve pass without fanfare, taking with them the fabricated need for special occasion clothing, she finds herself at a loss for excuses. There are times when she catches herself itching to type a funny anecdote from her workday into the Remote Fashion Police text thread. Every time it happens she berates herself thoroughly, feeling like a needy idiot for even thinking of bothering him.  
It certainly feels like they are friends of a sort, and that’s fine, but Molly knows that allowing herself to open up more than she already has would not be very wise of her. Even though her initial assumption about Anthea was wrong, she still doesn’t know about the relevance of his wedding ring or even if it’s a wedding ring at all. Besides, it’s a fool’s errand to even contemplate what she’s been thinking of recently, though the dangerous thoughts continue popping in her mind with perilous frequency.

Come late February, she is distracted from her growing problem by family drama. As a way of introducing Sheila’s fiancé, Ryan, to the family before their wedding in June, Sheila and Molly’s Aunt Sylvia are hosting a sort of belated engagement party at Aunt Sylvia’s house, and everyone in the family is invited, including Molly. Such gatherings are infrequent in their family, who are generally a bunch of people busy with their own affairs, and Molly feels a bit apprehensive at the idea of  interacting with people who tend to flinch at every mention of her job. When the time comes, she dresses in black trousers and one of the cashmere cardigans that Mycroft helped her choose, and so fortified, goes to face the wolves.

The party progresses rather smoothly. Ryan, who is a very pleasant bloke working in engineering, fits into the family quite easily. Molly likes him a lot; he’s very open and friendly, and has apparently been informed of Molly’s career choices and doesn’t seem to care all that much. Molly’s relatively good mood doesn’t last very long, though, as it never does in situations like this. It’s not that she doesn’t love her family. They’re all perfectly nice people. It’s just that they have the ability to make Molly feel like an outsider without doing anything particularly spiteful.

When she gets home later that night, she is a bit tipsy and dangerously melancholic. Three hours in the company of people who make you feel like you don’t belong even when they don’t mean to added to a half-hour long lonely Tube ride are a bad combination when you’re trying to stay cheerful. The worst bit is that the only thing she has waiting for her at home are Toby and a half-finished series of Merlin. It’s just another pathetic reminder that there’s something fundamentally missing from her life. She longs for someone to vent to, for someone who will understand and who will not think her petty for getting worked up over silly things.

She makes herself a mug of tea and settles down on her sofa, snuggling under a large blue and pink crochet afghan her late grandmother had made for her back when Molly was fifteen. She thinks of calling Meena, but she actually doesn’t feel much like talking to her and she’s not sure she would be understood. Dejected, she scrolls down her meagre list of contacts, dismissing name after name until she reaches “R”.

She’s dimly aware that this is a spectacularly bad idea, but the wine at Sheila and Ryan’s party has loosened her inhibitions, and she’s no longer able to stop herself.

Without thinking it through, she selects “Remote Fashion Police” and presses dial.

He picks up on the second ring, before she has the chance to come to her senses. “Doctor Hooper, is something wrong?” he asks urgently.

“Ah,” she mutters, the worry in his voice making her suddenly self-conscious and a bit panicked. “Ah, it’s nothing… Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you, you’re probably busy and…”

“What is it?” he presses.

“It’s really nothing – I mean… It’s fine – “

“Three glasses of wine, was it?” he sighs.

Molly blinks blearily. “What – How did you - ? No, never mind. Yes, three glasses.”

“What did your aunt say this time?”

Molly doesn’t question how he knows why she’s calling. “Um, well…. Just the usual, I mean…” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called; you don’t have time to listen to my whining…”

“What was it, exactly?”

She bites her lip and then decides that she might as well get it off her chest whilst she’s already bothering him. “It’s nothing, really, just some good natured banter. She wasn’t even aware that I was hurt.”

“Hmm.”

“She called me ‘the family genius’ when I knew the answer in one of those silly shows on telly. It’s sort of a nickname she uses from time to time,” she explains uneasily.  “I hate it, because I know I’m not a genius. I haven’t accomplished anything special, not by any standard, but my family thinks I’m so high up that I can no longer see them, because they look so small to me. It’s like because I graduated from university I’m no longer cut out from the same cloth. They like to joke about my degrees, my smarts, and my job… It looks like they’re making fun of me because I’m a weirdo or something… but sometimes I think it’s because they feel insecure…”

“Hmm, how so?”

“Because… um,” she pauses, a bit unsure about voicing her thoughts, but she supposes that Mycroft is probably not going to judge her. “I think… I think that they feel intimidated by me and my accomplishments and they think I’m better than them in some way… So they assume that I also think I’m better than them and that the rest of the world thinks I’m better than them… So they pick on me and make me into a joke to get rid of this threat.”

“I see.”

“Which is awful, really,” she continues. “Because I really don’t think I’m better than anyone in my family. I mean, degrees and a good job are only part of a person. Look at me, I’m awkward and silly, and can’t seem to form meaningful relationships with men, and all I have in my life apart from my job are TV shows and my cat.”

Her breath hitches and she stops talking, not wanting to spiral into a full-blown meltdown whilst on the phone with Mycroft Holmes. That would be just the juiciest cherry on the most caloric cake in the history of time.

What he says next, though, completely derails her.

“And yet you single-handedly saved four lives.”

Molly blinks. “What?”

“Because of you, Doctor Hooper, four people lived when they would have died. That is, of course, not counting the lives saved by the research you do in your normal day’s work,” comes his even, soft response.

Molly listens to his rich voice enumerating her grand acts and feels tears in her eyes. It is so nice of him to try and comfort her, even though what he’s saying is so patently ridiculous. Even so, she burrows deeper into her afghan and feels enveloped in the warmth of both the words and the fabric.

“Thank you,” she mutters. “I appreciate it. I’m… sorry to bother you with my silly problems.”

“Not at all.”

“But it’s not me who saved John and Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade. I only did what Sherlock asked me to. He had it all figured out, I just followed the plan.”

She hears him sigh. “You give yourself too little credit.”

Molly laughs softly. “You give me too much. I mean, it was sort of a no brainer for me. It’s not like I could ever refuse Sherlock anything.”

The silence from the other side seems overly long. “I see,” he says eventually, sounding a bit off. “I am sure he appreciated it. I certainly did.”

Molly smiles a tiny, teary smile. “He seemed to,” she says candidly. “He told me that I’ve always counted. I know he must have exaggerated that quite a lot, but it’s always nice to know that someone likes you, after all.”

“Ah,” Mycroft says quietly, then clears his throat. “If that is of any interest to you… I must tell you that I had been observing your role in his life and I always considered you to be his… friend.”

“Oh, I’ve always been his friend, it’s just that he never saw me as one,” she says quickly, hoping not to sound too bitter. “I mean, it was okay, it’s not like I – “

“No, you misunderstand me. You were – you are still, now more than ever – a person whom my brother has let into his life. You have become one of the fixtures of his reality, a person that matters, even if he never voiced it. You were the one he talked to on a regular basis; he opened up to you on a number of occasions… He saw you as a natural element of his life, like DI Lestrade or Mrs Hudson.”

For the longest moment Molly stays silent, sudden emotion clogging her throat, and then she takes a shuddering breath. “I, uh… I never realized… He… He did look so startled when I said I didn’t count…”

“You have always counted, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft tells her gently. “That was never up for debate.”

Hot emotion swells inside of her chest and she bites her lip to stop herself from openly sniffling. Molly rarely has nice things happen to her, and she normally doesn't know how to deal with them. Now is no exception; she doesn't know what to say or what to do with her hands. It's a good thing that Mycroft is not there to see her fumble. Two hot tears trickle down her cheeks and nose and sink into the afghan before she realizes she's been silent for nearly a full minute.

“Ah – um, I'm sorry...” she mutters, her voice breaking. “Thank you for telling me this. I appreciate it.”

“You're quite welcome,” he replies softly, then pauses for a moment, before venturing with a question. “May I be frank with you?”

“Of course,” she says quickly.

“Doctor Hooper, I consider you to be my… ally.”

Molly’s mind stutters to a stop. “You do?”

“Of course.”

“I, uh… thank you,” she stammers, completely blown away.

“And as your ally,” he continues in a level tone, “I have the privilege of helping you when you feel… out of sorts. Would you like a holiday tomorrow? A relaxing visit to the spa? Or perhaps an interesting post-mortem?”

Molly burst into giggles, drying her dewy eyes. “Are you kidding?”

“I do not kid,” he says mock-seriously. “I can arrange for all three. You needn’t go to Bart’s morgue for the post-mortem, I can have the body ready for you in a more… cheery location, should you wish it. Perhaps Disneyland?”

She tries stuffing her fist into her mouth to try and control the giggles, but it’s futile. “You want me to cut up cadavers with Mickey Mouse looking on?”

“I rather thought some of the princesses might want to become your assistants. I believe Snow White and Sleeping Beauty might have some sort of interest in pathology.”

Now she’s almost crying with laughter. “Those are my favourite princesses!” she cries in delight. “How did you know?”

He chuckles. “Given your morbid brand of humour, it was hardly a difficult deduction.”

Molly laughs for a while more, and then manages to compose herself enough to speak. “Thank you for the… offer… but that’s really not necessary. No dead bodies in Disneyland for me. Or spas.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Although… that interesting post mortem sounds lovely, actually. In a proper morgue, though. I don’t really want incompetent princesses messing up my stiffs.”

“Consider it done,” he huffs in amusement. “Now, I would advise you to go to bed. One can’t perform a post-mortem on less than six hours of sleep.”

“You’d be surprised,” she grumbles.

“I’m sure. Even so, I urge you to reconsider.”

“All right, all right, I’ll go,” she laughs, then says softly, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

There is a pause when she hears him take a breath. “Hmm,” he hums eventually, and then ends the call with “Good evening, Doctor Hooper.”

“Good night, Mycroft,” she answers, smiling, and doesn’t feel lonely even when her only reply is the phone signal.

*

Mycroft delivers on his promise handsomely, managing to lift her spirits for at least a full week, before she has another horrible day courtesy of a group of precocious students who have absolutely no idea how to behave around a morgue. Dealing with their texting and giggling during her post-mortem gives her a massive headache and makes her dream of going home and curling up on her sofa, Toby purring in her lap. The absolute low, though, comes when she discovers that the skies have opened up and flooded the city precisely on the day when she has forgotten her umbrella. After the end of her shift, she scurries out of Bart’s as fast as she can, but is completely drenched before she even manages to reach the first pedestrian crossing. She stops at the red light, jumping from one foot to the other and keeping her arms around her torso to keep herself warm.

“Evening, Doctor Hooper.”

She shrieks in fright and is instantly embarrassed when she realizes it’s Mycroft Holmes. He steps up to her from behind, and stands by her side, his large umbrella shielding them both from the rain.

“Oh,” she comments, somewhat surprised. “It’s actually a brolly…”

His brow quirks. “What did you expect it was?”

Molly laughs. “Some sort of weapon of mass destruction,” she answers wryly.

“Oh, I have others to handle those,” he deadpans.

They share a hearty chuckle and then stand in silence, watching the traffic. He’s standing close enough that she can feel the heat of his body seeping through her soaked jacket and sending goose-bumps down her arms. She chances a glance at his face; his features are arranged into a neutral, peaceful expression. He’s neither classically handsome, nor striking like Sherlock, but there’s just something about him that arrests her. Her breath catches in her throat and she coughs, looking away before she can embarrass herself.

“Have you heard from - ?” she asks.

“I’m afraid not,” he answers evenly. “No news since last week.”

“Oh.” Now she’s confused. “Then why - ?”

“My car was just driving past and I thought it would be polite to offer you a ride home,” he explains.

“Oh,” she fumbles, surprised, trying to ignore the warmth that swells in her chest. “That’s so nice of you…”

“It’s the least I can do,” he says, giving her a pointed glance.

Oh. Right. Molly smiles weakly and tries to squash the bitter feeling of disappointment. He told her explicitly that he feels indebted to her on account of his brother and, if anything, he is a well-mannered man who keeps his promises; of course he will feel obliged to repay her.

“Shall we, then?” he asks and offers his arm.

Stunned, Molly tentatively unfolds her arms from around herself and slips her hand round his elbow. Her fingers clench on the soft fabric of his dark grey coat; she can feel his warmth through the countless layers of clothes separating her from his skin and the heat travels up her forearm to her chest before pooling down in her abdomen. She bits on her lip and hopes that he’ll interpret the blush that spreads over her cheeks as more innocent than it actually is.

“I trust you had a productive day at work?” Mycroft inquires pleasantly as they begin to walk, and she’s glad for a diversion, launching into recounting a tale of disrespectful students who have made a laughingstock of her morgue. The car is parked just round the corner, glistening in the rain, so she doesn’t have the chance to make more of a fool of herself than she already has, which is good. What is not good, however, is the way Mycroft opens the door for her and holds the umbrella above her as she climbs in. And what is really very bad is how when he gets in next to her, the scent of his cologne fills the enclosed space so that she finds it hard to concentrate. The door shuts and the car glides back into traffic.

“Um, uh,” she flounders, “and, uh, how was your day?”

“Oh, it was dull in comparison. Lots of paperwork and not a single dead body.”

She snorts. “I wouldn’t take you for a fan of dead bodies. I would’ve thought they are more of  Sherlock’s thing.”

“They have their uses,” he comments mildly, “There was a project that I was a part of, not long ago, that involved smuggling a hundred or so cadavers onto a plane. Making them all disappear from morgues and undertakers all around London was an arduous task. I realize now I should have just approached you from the start, Doctor Hooper. It would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

Molly blinks. “What kind of a project was it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

“I can only tell you that it would have saved a lot of lives had it not been foiled by the stupidity of my little brother.”

“Oh. That’s a shame,” she says, now dying of curiosity. Mycroft’s amused smirk tells her he’s aware of that.

Suddenly, she realizes that he has complimented her and her cheeks blaze with the inevitable blush. “I don’t… I don’t think I would have been of much help. It’s not like I have a senior or particularly important position at the morgue.”

“And yet you are able to accomplish so much.”

She looks at him in surprise. He gives her a bland, polite smile before turning to look out the window, but not before she catches a glimpse of an expression that startles her for a reason she can’t recognize. She watches his profile, uncomfortably aware of her quickened heartbeat.

“The greatest power is found behind the scenes, Doctor Hooper. You should not belittle your importance.”

Molly doesn’t know what to say to that, so she stays silent, directing her gaze at her knees. What’s so refreshing about Mycroft is that his presence doesn’t require her to fill the silence between them. She’s not sure why, but she never feels the urge to prattle about nonsense in his company; in this way he is infinitely different from his brother, who fills her with the need to mask her inadequacies with word vomit. With Mycroft, she speaks less, and when she does, she actually sounds like an intelligent person instead of an idiot. It’s… nice.

It’s not particularly far from Bart’s to her flat, so the drive doesn’t take very long. The car pulls over in front of her building and Molly prepares to climb out as quickly as possible so that she can dash to the door. “Thank you for the ride,” she says, gathering her bag. “Good ni – “

“Allow me,” he interrupts.

She trails off and looks on, slack-jawed, as Mycroft gets out of the car, opens his umbrella, and walks around to open her door for her. She feels surreal as she slides her fingers into his proffered hand. Her skin tingles at the contact. He helps her out of the car, carefully positioning the umbrella over her head.

“Th-thank you,” she mutters. It’s the first time anyone has ever done something like this for her. She’s seen it on the telly, and thought it gallant and lovely, but she didn’t have any expectations that it would ever happen to her. Being on the receiving end of such good manners makes her feel simultaneously embarrassed and a bit special, even though she knows it’s not actually personal. Even so, she gives him a bright smile as she once again accepts his arm.

“You should consider carrying an umbrella more frequently,” he tells her as they reach the entrance to the building. Molly snorts.

“Not everyone is suited for this John Steed flair you’ve got going on.”

To her surprise, he laughs. “I would hardly make a good John Steed. I abhor legwork.”

“What do you call this then?” she asks, amused. “You’re walking me to my door.”

He smiles down at her, and it’s unlike anything she’s ever seen; his entire face lights up, softening all the hard edges into a picture that hits her straight in the heart.

“This is not legwork,” he says pleasantly.

She stares up at him, transfixed.

Slowly, his raw expression morphs back into a practiced genial mask. “Well then,” he says. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. Good evening, Doctor Hooper.”

“Good night,” she answers faintly. He gives her a nod and walks back to the car. She doesn’t wait for it to disappear into the night; she stumbles into the building, up the stairs and, after a fumble with her keys, into her flat.

Once inside, she leans on her door and, ignoring Toby weaving figure eights between her legs, closes her eyes and exhales. “Bugger.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry it's taken me so long... I have no excuses. I hope this was worth the wait, somewhat...
> 
> Betaed by the lovely Hope Tang. Not Brit-picked yet, because I didn't want to make you wait any longer...
> 
> Check bottom notes for a spoilery warning.

Part Four

The Umbrella Incident, as she starts calling it in her head, seems to break the dam on Molly’s feelings. In the weeks that follow, she finds her thoughts uncomfortably occupied with Mycroft Holmes’ smile.

She cannot decide whether this is a step up or a fall from her misbegotten crush on Sherlock. On the one hand, Mycroft at least seems to like her and he doesn’t make a sport of insulting her and making her appear ridiculous. On the other hand, this might be only because he’s polite and actually well-mannered; he might actually find her silly and amusing. She’s not sure which is worse, her feelings being overlooked and ignored as was the case with Sherlock, or dismissed as  as might be the case with his elder brother? Either way, she must be the most foolish woman on the face of the planet: not only did she fall for a Holmes, but she managed to do it twice. You can’t really get more idiotic than that.

Unfortunately, or perhaps thanks to a cosmic joke, her realization of inappropriate fluffy feelings coincides with a prolonged period of radio silence from Mycroft. For three weeks, she doesn’t hear a peep from him, there are noticeably no black cars popping up in her field of vision, and even the security cameras seem quite indifferent to her presence. She tries very hard not to feel abandoned, but the idea that he might have noticed her infatuation and his absence is an attempt to gently put her in her place proves to be very hard to resist.

At the beginning of April, a Sherlock-related scandal breaks out in the papers, cutting through her maudlin musings. Molly reads the article headlines and is struck dumb with shock: "SHERLOCK HOLMES - A TRAITOR?", "THE WOMAN AND BOFFIN HOLMES IN A PLOY AGAINST BRITAIN", "FAKE DETECTIVE WHIPPED INTO TREASON", "THE DOMINATRIX WHO BEAT 'TURNCOAT' SHERLOCK HOLMES".

The articles themselves are no better - full of horrifying accusations and terrible BDSM puns that make Molly's cheeks burn in embarrassment. She traces the sources to a particularly vile piece of text written by none other than Kitty Riley, who has taken the idea of Sherlock being a traitor seemingly out of a hat. Riley spins an elaborate tale of Sherlock teaming up with a dangerous sex worker, hell-bent on exposing national secrets and working against the British government. She tries to ground it in a very short, mysterious post on John Watson's blog from March 12, 2011. Molly herself had been curious when the blog post first came out, insanely jealous about the woman named Irene Adler who seemed to occupy Sherlock's thoughts.

That was the extent of her interest, though, in contrast to Kitty Riley, who sank her claws into the sentence "the country was nearly brought to its knees by one person - Irene Adler", and didn't seem to want to let it go. Her articles expand on the story considerably, citing as sources anonymous secret service agents with intel beyond the public's wildest dreams. Even so, the amount of information is skeletal at best, making more unwarranted commotion than sense. Riley - and all the others citing after her - writes of an elaborate plan against terrorism that didn't come to fruition only because of Sherlock's lust-addled brain. _State secrets_ , writes Riley, _were nearly exposed because Sherlock "Boffin" Holmes couldn't keep it in his pants._ Molly throws _The Sun_ forcibly down on the floor, making Toby scurry out of the way with an offended hiss. What utter tripe! Even if Sherlock had been sleeping with the Woman - which was highly unlikely... or at least that was her impression - he certainly wouldn't betray his country, she was sure of it.

She forces herself to finish reading and finds something that horrifies her far more than the previous accusations. At the end of her vicious article, Riley makes another stab in the dark, this time at a surprising target:

 

> _The torrid affair has yet another player: Holmes' elder brother, Mycroft, the mysterious figure mentioned in passing on Dr Watson's blog. Not much is known about the man, except for his rather lacklustre career in the Home Office, which begs the question: what does he have to hide? Could he have been Sherlock's accomplice? Or is it the other way round?_

Molly stares at the print in disbelief. Mycroft Holmes mentioned specifically by name in the papers seems like an anathema. It feels wrong and out of place, jarring, like shoes on the table. She worries, wondering if he's in trouble, if there's more at stake than a silly scandal. Her fingers itch to text him, and after several minutes of trying to talk herself out of it, she reaches for her phone and starts typing into the Remote Fashion Police thread.

_I've seen the papers. Are you ok?_

She stares at the screen until the phone goes into sleep mode, then refreshes it several more times, but there is no answer. The phone is silent for the rest of the day, and the day after. The papers are still spewing vitriol, and there's even a special BBC radio broadcast dealing with the topic, with several political experts unsuccessfully trying to downplay the whole thing as nonsense. The media is teeming with outrage, latching more and more onto Mycroft's inexplicable, shadowy presence in the absence of their favourite whippingboy, Sherlock. Molly's colleagues at Bart's try to engage her in some speculation, some of them belatedly realizing that she used to actually interact with Sherlock, but she mostly ignores them, too focused on checking her phone and constantly being disappointed with the lack of news.

After her shift ends, she decides to clear her head by taking a walk around the nearby Barbican Lake Terrace. She wanders aimlessly, barely enjoying the place, listening to Avril Lavigne on her iPod, and lying to convince herself that she's not hoping to feel the buzz of her phone in her pocket. There are no texts for her, though, so she eventually decides to head back home. When she turns back towards the Tube station, though, something catches her eye and makes her pause.

 

A lone dark poster beckons her closer, the melancholic shot depicting a human figure against the backdrop of a blue-lit room flooded with rain drops. _Random International, Rain Room at the Barbican Centre_ , reads the poster in white block letters, bringing with it a fond memory of a half-forgotten meeting with Mycroft. Anthea had once brought her into a room of artificial rain, and they had walked through without a single drop falling on their hair, to reach a secluded little alcove at the back of the gallery, where Mycroft had been waiting for her with the customary tea set. Back then the installation hadn't even had its premiere, and now it looks as if it is slowly drawing to a close. The decision to visit it one more time takes less than a second, and Molly walks briskly around the building complex to the gallery housing it.

There are several people already in the room when she arrives. Two schoolgirls and a middle-aged couple are walking around the installation, laughing and talking, the mesh metal floor screeching beneath their feet. Molly wanders in, stepping carefully, head cocked backwards so that she can look at the ceiling. The wall of water parts around her as she walks; her movements are followed by the careful gaze of the 3D camera. The soft blue light shimmers in the droplets.

 

 

 

She doesn't know how long she stays in the Rain Room, moving slowly but surely, staying out of the way of the falling water, sometimes closing her eyes and listening to the thudding around her. At some point she is surprised to find herself alone in the room, the two girls and the couple gone without her noticing. She pauses, bewildered, and it only takes a couple of seconds for the first drops to fall on her hair and shoulders.

“You are getting soaked, Doctor Hooper,” says Mycroft Holmes from behind her.

Molly gasps and turns around. He's standing at the entrance, in a dark suit with a red tie and a red pocket square, brolly missing, and face bathed in blue light.

“It’s an ingenious mechanism, but only when skilfully operated," he chides, walking over to her. "May I?”

Molly blinks. “What?”

Mycroft cocks a mocking eyebrow and, ignoring her confusion, reaches out for her right hand while at the same time stepping closer and placing her other hand on his shoulder. Her breath hitches and she barely manages to react in time when he gently grips her waist and starts guiding her into the basic steps of a very mellow waltz. It can hardly be called dancing – more like swaying – but it does the job. They are gliding in between the “raindrops”, the water thudding down all around them, but never touching, an invisible, magical umbrella of their movement held over their heads.

“Now,” he says, a bit hoarsely. “Where were we?” The sound of his voice carries easily in their rainless bubble, cutting through the thudding around them.

Molly stares up at him, speechless. The shock of seeing him combined with his closeness is doing funny things to her heart rate… and her breathing… and her coordination. She lets him lead her blindly, not because it’s a conscious choice, but more because her brain hasn't yet registered what is happening. Her whole body is tingling with nervous anticipation, even as her head catches up and refuses to succumb to false hope. When he starts talking again, at first she doesn’t really understand, but when the words coalesce into some sort of sense, Molly’s world tips again.

“Did you know?” he asks, feigning nonchalance, “My brother’s… fall from grace… was partially my fault. And when I say partially… Well. Let’s settle on mostly, shall we?”

“W-what do you mean…?” she stutters out.

His smile is bland and does not reach his eyes. “I won’t insult you by denying that my minor position in the government is just a façade… I cannot elaborate on the… extent of my influence… but let me assure you, it is quite substantial. So substantial, in fact, that at some point I found myself in the position of temporarily incarcerating one… consulting criminal, you might say.”

Molly gasps. She doesn’t know where this is going, but she is sure it’s nowhere good, seeing as it’s about Moriarty.

“I admit that I may have somewhat… excessive ways of ensuring my brother’s safety,” he says tonelessly, “And there are also times when I… overestimate my abilities. If one holds a position such as my own, it is fairly easy to sometimes… forget oneself. Especially in a personal matter. Especially when one is overconfident.”

He pauses for a long time, twirling them both all over the installation, all the while looking over her head and avoiding her eyes. Molly bites her lip and focuses her gaze on his neck, observing how the immaculate cut of his collar strains against his skin when he swallows. His whole posture is stiff and uncomfortable, not quite defeated, but not victorious either – more like a little boy awaiting his punishment for something he knows was wrong, but at the same time necessary.

Finally, he speaks, “So when it became clear that James Moriarty would not talk unless I gave him information about Sherlock, I gladly complied, thinking that I would surely be able to contain whatever he was planning to do with it.”

Molly’s heart stops.

“You – but – ” she says, her voice pathetically small.

“I was mistaken,” he talks over her, stiffly. “As you very well know.”

“But – ”

“I imagined that he couldn’t possibly fool me, with all of my resources and wit. I presumed that it would not take much to outwit him. I saw him as obsessed and rash.  But I was wrong,” he says harshly. “So very wrong. I underestimated him. He was insane, yes, but still so terribly clever…”

The tone of his voice is carefully blank, so emotionless that it cannot possibly be anything else than just a mask. Guilt and shame are what he’s trying to hide… But is he truly trying? It feels more like he’s trying to reach out to her, but doesn’t know how.

She looks up at him, earnest. “Why are you telling me all this?”

He returns the gaze softly, before speaking with a frankness that startles her, “I dislike being superfluous, Doctor Hooper. You have an uncanny ability to read me, and so I see no point in trying to hide from you.”

Oh.

Oh, dear.

Molly stops, breaking the waltz. She is not surprised to feel tears burning in her eyes. She can understand when an intensely closed and private person informs her that he trusts her enough to just stop bothering with the walls that must feel to him like second skin. Her dad used to be like this, all nice and cheerful on the outside, but closed off where it mattered. Molly had the privilege to be one of the very few people who really knew him, and learned to recognise the precious moments when he sometimes let go of his boundaries. But this moment is not about her, or about her dad. She is not fooled; Mycroft is reaching out because he is hurting, and she is the one on the other side. But how can she help? She doesn’t have anything to offer except for herself and her words. Will that be enough? Probably not, but what else can she do? She can’t ignore this.

So she gently grasps both of his hands, bringing them down between their bodies and linking their fingers. Then she looks up and stares straight into his startled face.

“You know, even the mighty Mycroft Holmes makes mistakes,” she says softly, ignoring the cold droplets falling on her nose and forehead now that they’re standing still. “And in this case… It wasn’t only you who made them. I won’t say that I completely understand what happened, because I don’t… But I know you can’t be entirely to blame. You can’t prevent everything, you know.”

He laughs hollowly. “Oh, believe me, I do know it.”

“And you’re not a machine, either,” she adds.

“I never pretended to be.”

“You know that’s not true. You pretend all the time. You and Sherlock both. You think you’re infallible… You hold yourselves to this impossible standard and mostly you succeed in achieving it… But when the time comes and you fall just a little bit short, it feels like the end of the world.”

Mycroft smiles mirthlessly. “It did feel like the end of the world. I thought my brother was dead because of my failures.”

Her own smile is wobbly when she replies, “It’s a good thing I was there to tell you he wasn’t actually dead, isn’t it?”

His eyes soften just a little bit. “Indeed,” he says quietly.

 A large drop falls on his head and musses up his hair. Molly smiles softly. “You’re getting wet,” she says.

“So are you.”

“True.”

“The most sensible thing would be to move again.”

“Also true,” she laughs. “But… you know, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Speak for yourself,” he sniffs. “Do you have any idea how much this suit is worth? Shall we?”

“Oh,” she says in panic, noticing she’s still holding his hands, large, long-fingered and warm, which are now encircling her own gently, thumbs pressed into her knuckles. She lets him guide her back into a waltz, this one still as slow-paced as the one before, but this time he seems a bit more relaxed. Still, she isn’t fooled: he’s sporting a pinched expression and his eyes are turned inwards. She squeezes his shoulder, temporarily imprinting folds into the fabric of his jacket.

“Are you okay?”

His smile is patronizing. “I am not as fragile as you believe, Doctor Hooper.”

She falls silent, not wanting to contradict him, but not willing to let it go, either. “Um… this new scandal… is it – “

“Yes, it’s also my fault. This one more so than anything else. You see, it’s aimed more at me than at my brother.”

“Why?”

“It was my project. And all was going well until it backfired because I decided to employ my brother’s help in a case that proved beyond him.”

“So it’s true…? What they wrote in the papers? That Sherlock almost betrayed his country for a… for a woman?” she stumbles over the last words, embarrassed. Then she remembers something. “Was that the woman from Christmas? The not-her-face woman?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at her. She hurries to explain. “Uh, there was this woman with her face bashed in on Christmas, Sherlock was supposed to identify her, but you really couldn’t have done it from her face, but, um… Sherlock, he… Well, um, he identified her by… not her face.” She trails off awkwardly, her face growing hot in remembrance.

He stares at her for a long moment, as if searching for something. He doesn’t seem to be finding it, because his expression gradually darkens in displeasure. It passes briefly through a cloudy frown and then settles on blankness. “Yes, I am aware of that situation. And to answer your previous question: no,” he says tightly.

“N-no?”

Mycroft looks down at her with a trace of pity and indulgence. The change from the previous warmth into this sudden coldness makes her uneasy and confuses her. “No. He didn’t wilfully betray his country as much as became so distracted that he almost lost the game,” he explains derisively. “Sherlock should never have been involved in the first place, but the Woman played us both and nearly won. She was a formidable enemy, I admit, and only lost because she placed all her stakes on a sentimental pun.”

Molly blinks. “I don’t understand.”

His smile is very close to a sneer, but only just. “No matter. It will soon be over. My people are already working on a retraction; ~~,~~ it should be out of the papers by tomorrow morning.”

“But – You can do that?”

“I can do a number of things,” he says pointedly. “Does this frighten you?”

She swallows, a bit thrown, but also knows that he’ll notice if she’s lying. She decides to admit the truth. “Sometimes… yes, a bit.”

His face is unreadable. “You needn’t be frightened.”

“Yes, I know. I’m your ally, remember?”

“Yes,” he drawls. “But more importantly, you are my brother’s friend. You will never be in any danger from me.”

It should be empowering and satisfying, but instead is debilitating. His words sting more than she imagined they would, making her chest ache and a pitiful burning rise behind her eyes. It’s obvious he’s retreated back behind his walls, letting her know in no uncertain terms that whatever regard he has for her is mediated only through her connection to Sherlock. She doesn’t know what brought this on – was it something she said? Or something more obscure, over which she had no control? She ducks her head and fixes her eyes on his tie. Well, what was she expecting?

The dance gradually turns sour and stiff, and eventually Mycroft stops and formally kisses her hand, making the gesture cold and meaningless. “I must be off,” he says, straightening. “I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you today.”

“No – ” she protests, but he only tips his head.

“Good day, Doctor Hooper.”

He’s gone before she can process what’s happening. What has she done? She doesn’t understand. At some point he closed off, completely shutting her out, seemingly for no reason at all. It’s literally like a blow to the head. She has no idea what happened, his actions and motivations are a complete mystery to her. For the first time since she’s met him, she has absolutely no inkling to what lies in his head.

Dejected, she leaves the Rain Room before she can get completely soaked.

The next day, the papers publish several apologetic articles, using phrases such as 'exaggeration', 'unreliable sources', 'bloodthirsty witch hunt', and 'inexplicable accusations'. The scandal quiets down, but Molly's mind remains uneasy.

 

  
[Fanart](http://kingaofthewoods.tumblr.com/post/75806275372/hi-omg-i-dont-know-what-to-say-i-guess-ill) by [alexeithymia](http://alexeithymia.tumblr.com/)  


*

She doesn't see him again until the end of the month.

It's a particularly fresh Saturday and she’s out with her mum again, listening to her chat about Sheila’s approaching wedding. They’re weaving in and out of a crowd of shoppers and tourists, and it’s almost time to start thinking about lunch. It’s Molly’s treat today, and she’s thinking Indian or Chinese, but can’t really decide between them, so she’ll probably leave the choice to her mum.

“Do you have a nice dress yet?” her mum asks, giving her a sideways glance. “I liked that black-and-silver number, do you still have it?”

Molly can’t hide her flinch. “I don’t really feel comfortable in that dress anymore, Mum,” she mutters.

“Oh. Oh! Yes, right, I’m so sorry, I remember now, you bought it for that detective, didn’t you…” her mother’s voice falters. “Sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

Molly gives her a tired smile. “It’s all right. And no, I don’t have a dress yet. Do you think we could try and look for one next week? It’s just, my pay’s not due till Wednesday, and I’m thinking I could splurge a bit, you know…”

“Yes, yes, all right,” her mum agrees easily. “I’m not up for anymore shopping today anyway, so that’s okay. How about we go and grab a bite of something – Oh, wait a moment…” she pauses, squinting at something in the distance.  “Oh, that’s weird.” She looks away, and then glances quickly back and away again. “Looks like… No, I’m being silly.”

Molly blinks in confusion. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” her mother answers, but she keeps glancing around and frowning.

“It’s obviously something.”

“I’m just being silly. It’s just…” she turns towards Molly and lowers her voice worriedly. “Don’t look, but I think that man’s watching us.”

Molly’s eyes snap around in alarm. It takes her a moment, but eventually she spots the figure that sparked her mum's paranoia. Mycroft Holmes is standing against one of his black cars with tinted windows, umbrella tip tapping against his shoe. He's watching them intently, not bothering to hide it and looking quite menacing because of it. Molly's heart thumps in her chest in surprise.

“I told you not to look!” her mother hisses from her side. “Let’s go, he’s a bit creepy.”

She can’t be sure at this distance, but there seems to be something odd about Mycroft's stance. He’s stiff, as if he hasn’t slept in days, and there’s a strange tiredness in his shoulders, but it’s the way he ducks his head just a little bit when he sees her watching that tells her that something is seriously wrong. His stance and expression remind her of that private moment she wishes she had not witnessed all those months ago when he had first learned from her that Sherlock was alive. Her breath hitches in her throat.

“Mum, I’m sorry, but I need to go,” she mumbles, not waiting for a response before moving towards the car, determination quickening her steps. She hears her mother’s voice calling after her in surprise, but she ignores it. She comes to a stop in front of him, worry settling in her stomach. Mycroft’s eyes are flat, but the skin around them is tight, and he’s fiddling with his umbrella, fingers tapping against the handle, which makes it obvious to her that he’s distressed.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she urges softly, her fingers moving out of their own volition and brushing the fabric of his immaculate jacket before settling around his forearm. Today the suit is a dark pinstriped affair, the white gold chain of his pocket watch starkly visible against his waistcoat.

“Ah,” he hums quietly, “I should have known. Your perceptiveness is as formidable as ever, Doctor Hooper.” He doesn’t move his arm away, and she can feel his warmth on her palm.

“Tell me.”

“Very well,” he concedes. “But perhaps we should move somewhere more private. Your mother looks concerned.” He gives her mum a polite nod over Molly's shoulder, and Molly glances back at her, feeling a bit embarrassed. Her mother is standing where Molly left her, a bit slack-jawed, and with a frown settling between her brows. Molly drops her hand from Mycroft’s arm and twists her mouth sheepishly.

“I’ll just go and say goodbye, then.”

“Yes, do.” There’s amusement and affection in his gaze for a short moment, and she’s so startled by it that when she walks over to her Mum her cheeks are flushed and her heart is fluttering.

“Molly, do you know him?” her mother questions, building up a worried rant, but Molly cuts in breathlessly.

“Yeah, he’s a… friend. Listen, um, I need to go, something’s come up. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Molly – ”

Molly is already too occupied with what is going on to hear the rest of her mum’s words, and she quickly sidesteps other shoppers on her way back to the car. Mycroft opens the door for her and she climbs inside, the outside world falling silent. She doesn’t relish in the feel of the leather upholstery and the dark and heavy scent of his cologne as he seats himself next to her. When the car starts moving, neither does she feel a familiar rush of adrenaline and anticipation. The sight of his shattered expression completely cools her down. He’s shed most of his pretences and runs a tired hand across his furrowed brows.

“What happened?” she asks, preparing for the worst.

“I received some information about Sherlock,” he ventures finally. “Apparently, he has been involved in a minor scuffle in the seedy underbelly of an undisclosed city. I gather his opponent was armed with a knife.”

Molly’s heart skips a beat. “Oh my God, is he okay?”

He looks at her then, pale, mouth pressed into a thin line, and she can see that not only is Sherlock spectacularly not okay, but Mycroft is not faring any better.

“My brother was… stabbed, for lack of a better word,” he says, feigning coolness. “My intel tells me that he is now being well cared for at the local hospital, but the situation is far from contained. I have secured some of the best surgeons for him, let us just hope they will get to him in time.”

His voice doesn’t waver and to anyone else he’d appear entirely collected, but for her it’s plain as day that he is truly shaken; that’s why she doesn’t hesitate and reaches for his hand. After a moment of indecision, his fingers curl around hers and they lapse into a deep, troubled silence, her palm warming his cool skin. It's the only point of contact between them as they sit side by side, not looking at each other.

Through the dimmed window Molly watches London flash by, and tries to conquer her anxiety. The seriousness of the situation dawns on her in increments. She thinks of Sherlock, alone in a strange land, bleeding and in pain, but most of all, she thinks of the man sitting beside her, silent in his anguish, and her heart goes out to him. She can only imagine what he must be going through, having already grieved for the death of his brother and now facing the impending possibility of having to do it all over again. It’s a strange, strange life they all lead, like something out of a comic book. She wonders inanely which archetypes they fill; Sherlock is, of course, the reluctant hero, with Mycroft as the enabling behind-the-scenes presence, a sort of a mentor watching over the action, but not participating. Doctor Watson is the loyal sidekick, Molly the silly girl with a crush, and that not-her-face woman the formidable love interest. But, she thinks, everything about this story is skewed. Sherlock is too much of a dick to be a proper hero, and, she suspects, underneath it all and in whatever capacity, it’s actually Doctor Watson who’s the real love interest, and not the Woman. Mycroft is not a wise father figure; he’s a man who makes mistakes, ones for which he pays dearly; and she’s actually not quite sure about her own role in the grand scheme of things. She supposes they’ve all already exceeded the boundaries of comic book characters, anyway.

She dares a glance at the man whose hand she’s holding, and in that moment he appears to her to be completely inapproachable, a statue sculpted out of ice, sitting ramrod straight and looking ahead with flat, empty eyes. Beside him, she feels small and useless, and she doesn’t know how to help him, but she’s read about Mars and Venus and perhaps it’s better to just let him be. So she strokes his palm with her thumb, but doesn’t ask about where they’re going or if there’s anything she can do. She watches London through her window, and tries to ignore the reflection of his face that flashes in the tinted glass.

Eventually, he silently disentangles his fingers and occupies himself with his phone. Molly puts her hand in her lap, consciously stopping herself from flexing her fingers in remembrance of his touch.

The car carries them outside of London and Molly, who has never had much in the way of a sense of direction, stops pretending to follow their route. Half an hour later, the car stops in front of a large two-story house in a quiet, posh neighbourhood. Someone opens the door from the outside and Mycroft steps out, impassive mask in place. There’s a man in a dark suit waiting on the sidewalk.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” he says, and then falters when he spots her clumsily shuffling out on the other side before anyone can open the door for her, but his expression quickly evens out. “Your lunch is ready, as you requested.”

Mycroft nods distractedly and motions her to precede him through the large ornate door to what appears to be his home. Humbled and embarrassed, she ducks her head and hopes she doesn’t stumble on the porch. He opens the door for her, making her feel even more insecure, and she steps inside, painfully aware of his presence right behind her. The interior of the house looks, if it’s even possible, even more imposing than the exterior; it’s like a Regency mansion crammed into a town house, complete with what looks like Renaissance sculptures and ghastly portraits. Mycroft leads her down the hall to a large room with two heavy wingback armchairs in front of a fireplace on the right, and a long table on the… left… oh, God. She stops and stares, and the hilarity is bubbling inside of her despite the gravity of the situation, because really?

The snort escapes her throat before she can even think about stopping herself.

“Is there something funny?” Mycroft asks her archly, a hint of reproach in his voice.

She bites her lip. “Sorry, it’s just…” She tries to disguise another giggle as a cough, but fails spectacularly. “It’s just, you have life-size… statues of _horses_ … in your living room.”

“Those are knights,” he informs her stiffly.

“Oh,” she responds, a manic grin threatening to spread across her lips. “Right, _knights_. I see. So, um, you… like the Middle Ages, then…?”

His mouth quirks in a genuine half-smile and he gives her a begrudgingly amused huff. “The knights are chess pieces. I am fond of the game.”

“Oh,” she says, and then before she can think better of it, “Like in Harry Potter? Do you have a special large board in the bedroom?”

He raises an eyebrow at her, and she looks away, torn between feeling chagrined and exasperated, because, naturally, he won’t be so trite as to have a giant chess board, but having two enormous stone horses – no, sorry, _knights_ – guarding the window with spears is all in good taste. Ridiculous, ridiculous man.

“Please have something to eat, Doctor Hooper,” Mycroft changes the topic, and she finally spots the lunch for two laid out on the table. “I am sure you are hungry.”

“Oh, yes, right, thank you.”

She allows him to lead her to her seat, and to push in her chair for her, and she once again feels like a bumbling idiot in the face of his upper-class mannerisms. It feels… nice… to be pampered like this, but it seems like too much. He ignores her discomfort and sits down next to her, at the head of the table, and they begin eating in silence, which quickly changes from strained to comfortable. All throughout the meal, she catches him glancing at the mobile phone lying vigilant by his water glass. He’s waiting for news of Sherlock, she realizes with a start. Is that why she’s here? So that he’s not alone when they finally call him? Something warm and tender blooms in her chest and refuses to leave.

The plates are tidied up by a prim, efficient woman who doesn’t bat an eyelash at her presence. Molly tries to smile at her, but the woman ignores her completely. Once she’s gone Mycroft stands up and rummages through a cabinet. When he comes back, there are two thick folders in his hands.

“I had those delivered from St. Bartholomew’s,” he says by way of explanation, setting one of them in front of her. “I have some pressing business I need to attend to, so I thought it would be prudent to provide you with some distraction.”

Inside the folder, she finds stacks of her own notes and paperwork from the morgue. She stares at the papers in disbelief. He broke into her office to bring her work to his home so that she can do it here while he goes off about his business? This doesn’t make any sense – oh. She watches as he settles down in his seat, his own pile of documents in front of him. He raises his eyes at her.

“I trust everything is to your satisfaction?”

And suddenly she feels a bit like crying, because, as sad as it sounds, this must be one of the nicest things a man has ever done for her. She gives him a wobbly smile and a nod instead and sets down to work.

Soon they are both engrossed, working side by side, and the silence stretches between them, but it’s warm, and it’s full, and Molly loves it, because she likes silences, she likes his steady presence at her elbow, she likes the sound of his long-suffering sighs and the scratch of his ridiculous, beautiful fountain pen. Occasionally, she steals glances at his focused face, tracing its contours with her eyes, mapping the purse of his lips and the wrinkle over his long nose. She watches his hands, remembering the feel of his skin, and wonders about the plain wedding band on his finger, about the mystery of the missing Mr or Mrs Holmes. She imagines a ghost of a lovely young man, long dead and buried, his casket swathed in flowers. Other times she sees an estranged, cold-hearted wife instead, living alone in a country estate while he spends his days here, with only stone knights as companions. She doesn’t know which of the visions she likes less.

Time passes without her noticing. At some point the woman comes in, carrying a tea-set, and Mycroft deftly pours her a cup. The afternoon settles into evening, and since it's getting a bit chilly, Mycroft lights the fire in the fireplace. The room is bathed in a warm glow, and somehow it no longer looks quite so intimidating, even if it’s still far from cosy. When it grows warmer, Mycroft removes his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. Seeing him only in his shirt and waistcoat seems a bit like peeping, but Molly can’t seem to drag her eyes away from his arms and the lines of his shoulders, so much more pronounced now, so present and there, just within her reach. He doesn’t seem to notice her staring, but she knows better, and she ducks her head, hoping that her blush is invisible under the warmth of the fire.

And all this time the mobile phone lies silent and unrepentant on the table.

Around seven o’clock the woman serves them dinner. They eat unhurriedly, talking about their work, well, her talking freely and him making vague comments, and somewhere along the way she realizes that she could get used to this, that this is nice, this is really something she’d like to repeat sometime, or maybe even every day. That is a dangerous thought, one that could destroy her if she indulges in it for too long, so she simply waves it away, reminding herself that they still don’t know anything about Sherlock and she should focus on that.

“Would you like some wine?” he asks her after the table has been cleared. “Or something stronger?”

“Wine would be nice,” she replies softly. She watches as he walks to an ornate drinks cabinet and pours a glass of red for her and a tumbler of scotch for himself. They settle in the wingback chairs, watching the fire, the mobile phone lying on the hand rest by Mycroft's elbow.

Their conversation is pleasant and unhurried. When she asks him, he tells her about his love of chess. "My grandfather taught me how to play," he muses, drinking his scotch. "He always made me play with the black pieces, saying that it was more beneficial to learn when at a disadvantage."

"He sounds quite shrewd."

"He was. Chess tactics wasn't the only skill he taught me."

When pressed, he admits to a childhood fascination with King Arthur and his Knights, and she drinks in the even sound of his voice and laughs at his disgusted expression when he recounts Sherlock’s disdain for the law and order of the Round Table and his defection towards pirate romances.

"He would steal Mummy's Dolce&Gabbana scarf and tie it around his head like a bandanna, and then run off into the garden and pretend the fountain sculpture was his pirate ship," he says, scrunching his nose. "Of course, the scarf was completely ruined almost immediately, but it was I who got scolded."

"Oh, poor you," says Molly through her giggles. "Oh, gosh, I can't get that image out of my head... Little Sherlock, a pirate!"

She's feeling a little tipsy, but she notices Mycroft look away for a moment, then take a long sip of his drink, and then turn back, a somewhat determined look fixed on his face.

"What stories did you enjoy as a child?" he asks. "I assume undead princesses were just the proverbial tip of the iceberg."

Molly grins, remembering their banter about Snow White and Sleeping Beauty assisting her in a post-mortem. "Well, you're not far off, actually." She confesses, a bit sheepishly, that as a little girl she liked stories about coming back from the dead, which, given her profession, most people find a bit morbid. "There was something really fascinating about death not being permanent, I guess... My Dad used to read me _The Chronicles of Narnia_ before I went to bed, and I always made him re-read the part when they find out that Aslan is still alive... And also, I remember, when Dad bought me a VHS cassette of _Casper_ for my thirteenth birthday, I was really disappointed that Casper didn't manage to use the Lazarus machine on himself..."

Mycroft smiles at her over his scotch, unperturbed, his eyes soft. Molly feels a rush of pleasure, and glances at her lap, a bit uncertain. There is something hanging in the air, something she has up till now refused to acknowledge. Perhaps it's the alcohol - Mycroft seems to be particularly liberal with his drinks; Molly is not quite sure how many he's already had, but his cheeks are flushed and he has loosened his tie a bit - or maybe it's the warmth from the hearth, but the room seems hotter than before, and tense with some sort of anticipation. Molly chances a glance at him and catches his eye. He's watching her with a quiet intensity, his expression almost, but not quite unreadable, betraying something she has not dared to declare possible...

She remembers the way his hand felt in hers a couple of hours earlier, but more importantly, she remembers the dance they shared in the artificial rain two weeks ago, and the way he escorted her to her door after giving her a lift home even earlier than that. Perhaps she has been wilfully ignoring the signs, perhaps her fascination wasn't quite as one-sided as she had previously thought... Could it be that...? But of course not... But what if...?

Her frantic thoughts are interrupted by the shrill ring of the mobile phone.

Molly freezes, her glass of wine suspended halfway to her lips, and watches Mycroft pick up, listen in rigid silence, and then finish the call without uttering a single word. He places the phone on the little table between the chairs and, unexpectedly, leans forward and hides his face in his hands, a long, shuddering breath escaping his lips.

Molly’s heart leaps into her throat and she can’t find her voice.

“He’s…” he begins, and then clears his throat, “stable. He woke up fifteen minutes ago, terrorized the nurses, and apparently is adamantly refusing to come back to Britain.”

Molly lets out a squeak of a laugh and sets her glass on the table between the chairs with a trembling hand.

“Well, that’s… good, isn’t it?”

His shoulders start to shake with helpless amusement. “Yes, as much as it pains me to admit, it’s… good.”

They share a weak chuckle, her staring, and him leaning on his elbows with his face in his hands. But then he straightens and looks at her, the ingrained concern for his brother diminished from his eyes, replaced with something altogether different. The earlier tension is back with a vengeance.

“Thank you, Doctor Hooper,” he tells her, his voice low and pleasant, and she can feel a warm certainty expanding in her chest. Sherlock is pushed to the side, and instead she focuses her attention on what is happening between them. She isn't imagining this. It is there, she can see it plain as day. The knowledge is exhilarating and intoxicating. It liberates and empowers her to finally act. An idea forms in her mind, and the determination to carry it out spreads nervous tingles along her arms and legs.

She moves forward in her seat and reaches out, her fingers touching his face and splaying across his cheek. “Please call me Molly,” she whispers, heart pounding, not quite believing what she’s doing.

There's surprise visible in his expression, but then it changes into something else. “Thank you, Molly,” he concedes, voice hoarse and eyes burning.

Adrenaline surges through her body, making her arms and legs feel like they are on fire, and she takes the final step and leans up and across the table to kiss him. Until the last moment she does not expect him to kiss her back, not really, so when he responds, she almost can't believe it. His presence becomes overpowering and his mouth moves across hers slowly, warm, soft, and tantalizing. Her eyes fall closed and she settles her other hand on his shoulder, on the brink of his waistcoat and shirt collar, and then slides it across his tie and down his chest to the row of buttons beneath. Her lips grow more insistent, and he responds in kind, his hands gripping her shoulders as she leans into him, sitting on the edge of her chair and wanting nothing more than to find herself in his lap, to press her body against his.

But he chooses that moment to move back, separating their lips and letting her hands fall away from his face and chest. She opens her eyes, mind bleary with lust, only to meet his intense gaze as he looks at her silently, hair slightly dishevelled where she tousled it with her fingers. She barely has a moment to start feeling insecure before he hums with approval and moves in for another kiss, placing a large warm hand on her neck just beneath her ear. Molly obliges him happily, slanting her head and humming in pleasure. They stay like this for a while, suspended over the table, awkward and uncomfortable, but both unwilling to stop. She can't help but want to be closer, though, so she scoots even further to the edge of her seat, and in the process knocks her knee into the little table, causing a bit of a distracting racket as her wine glass falls over and spills a bit onto the floor. They break apart, startled.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry - " She moves to try and clean up the mess, straightens the overturned glass, but Mycroft stops her.

"Molly."

He stands up and holds out his hand, palm up, the cuff of his shirt sliding down his arm with a whisper. The gesture looks like a tentative challenge, as if he expects her to refuse, which seems patently ridiculous. She lets out a breath and takes it without a second thought. Satisfied, he tugs her to her feet firmly and silently leads her around the wingback chairs. Her vision sort of blurs when she follows him out of the room and up the stairs, all the while feeling him thumbing circles against her palm. She can barely believe this is happening; the combined forces of disbelief, fierce anticipation, and joy distort her perception of her surroundings. She catches glimpses of a long hall filled with closed doors. One of them reveals an ostentatious bedroom. The massive bed and silk sheets don’t seem quite as ridiculous as they would if he weren’t looking at her with such burning hunger in eyes that, for once, are not flat at all.

The door falls closed behind them with a final sort of thud, which releases her from all remaining doubts. She pushes him backward on the hardwood floor until he sits down on the bed, staring up at her expectantly, waiting. Molly wants to peel him, one layer at a time, until he is bare and raw. The buttons of his waistcoat slip easily from their holes, and she slides the garment off his shoulders, the warmth of his arms scorching through his shirt. Her fingers move to his collar, pulling gently at the tie, letting it unknot and fall into his lap. The buttons at his throat come next, revealing a pale neck and the hollow of a collar ~~-~~ bone. Her hands skim across his throbbing pulse point, as if the look in his eyes is not reassuring enough. She wants to continue down his front, but she’s nothing if not methodical. She pushes his embroidered, burgundy braces off his shoulders, then unclips his white gold cufflinks, fingers brushing against the inside of his wrists, and sets them on the night stand. Only then does she allow herself to unbutton the rest of his shirt, unravelling him, tugging the expensive fabric out of his trousers, slipping it down his shoulders so it finally gathers on the bed around his hips, one last conquered wall of his fortress. He is lean but soft, with careful lines curving into the muscles of his arms and chest. The sight of him bare is both endearing and erotic and she runs her hand through the hair along his sternum, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

She leans down and kisses him hungrily, angling his face upwards, hand at his throat. He hums against her lips and deepens the kiss, bringing an arm to her waist and tugging at the edge of her jumper. She lingers at his mouth, stealing kiss after kiss, at first ignoring his insistent hand that worms its way under the jumper and under her shirt. The skin-on-skin touch at her back sends a shudder through her body. Molly feels a pressing need to find herself in his lap, but she can't do it while still wearing clothes, so she ends the kiss reluctantly, takes a step back and removes her jumper over her head. When she comes out of that moment of blindness, Mycroft is watching her intently, hands gripping the edge of the bed. She lets the jumper fall to the floor, with trembling fingers takes off her shirt and bra, kicks off her shoes and slides her trousers and knickers down her hips. Her desire is too strong for her to feel self-conscious. She steps between his legs until her knees press into the mattress, and her thighs into his crotch. He kisses her then, languidly but firmly, arms circling her waist and crushing her to him. When she finally climbs into his lap, his kisses become less controlled as she presses her thighs to his hips and sneaks her arms around his torso, one hand travelling up his neck into his hair and the other scratching between his shoulder blades. She can feel how hard he is through his trousers and she rocks against him until he shudders beneath her, and his embrace becomes a cage of steel. Molly moans into his mouth, startled by the hot emotion burning in her chest and throat. She mirrors his movement, gripping him tightly in response.

Soon the dry contact is not enough. Mycroft eases his hold and reaches around her to the bedside cupboard for a condom. His hands are shaking between their bodies as he fumbles with his trousers, his usual icy composure completely shattered, the square plastic package crinkling between his fingers. Molly looks down at him, overflowing with a feeling so strong it threatens to spill in tears down her cheeks. She holds her breath, trying to rein it in but failing, saved only by a fresh wave of arousal when he finally manages to free himself. Before he can put on the condom, she reaches out and does it for him, relishing in his startled groan. She wastes no time in guiding him in and sinking down, arms clasped around his shoulders so tight she's sure it will leave bruises. He rocks up against her and she tightens her thighs around his hips. Their faces are almost on the same level, with hers just a hair higher, in the perfect position to nuzzle her cheek against his and lick his ear, which makes him press his lips to her neck. They move together, their mutual grip so strong that Molly sometimes loses her breath. In those moments she feels as if she might be allowed to keep him; that he might let her hang onto him for a while longer, to let her trap him in the circle of her arms and legs.

At some point, when they both seem to be nearing climax, Mycroft stops kissing her neck and presses his face into her shoulder. Seconds later, she feels a drop of something warm and wet on her skin. She comes, gasping, her mind almost too fuzzy to realize what is happening, and he follows not long after, face hidden from view. Through the post-orgasmic haze, Molly can feel his heavy breaths that have nothing to do with sex. With a sinking feeling, she realizes that he is crying. It’s not obvious; she would not have realized it was happening had a couple of his tears not fallen onto her shoulder.

The realization completely blows her mind. Why...? Why would he...? Is it something she's done...? What...?

Oh!

Of course, Sherlock! She has forgotten about Sherlock! Sherlock, who has been stabbed and is now in hospital in a city God only knows where.

How could she have forgotten...?

Oh, God.

Completely freaked out, she tenses almost involuntarily. Mycroft freezes beneath her, becoming as still as one of the statues downstairs. After a beat, he raises his head from her shoulder, but keeps his face averted as the wet spot on her skin becomes cold. Molly feels dread pool in her stomach as she stares helplessly at the dark curtains decorating the window on the other side of the bedroom. She feels sick. Multiple images and thoughts pass through her mind at top speed. She has completely forgotten about Sherlock, about the entire point of her being here, and instead went out and decided to seduce Mycroft at a time when he was at his most vulnerable. Her mind in chaos; guilt creeps in easily, taking the wheel. She doesn't know how to fix this. She doesn't know what to do.

The room grows cold. She wants to ask if he's okay, she wants to tell him that she's here if he needs her, that it's going to be all right... But it's _Mycroft Holmes_. She has caught him out, she witnessed him losing his composure, he is going to _hate_ her... Panic overwhelms her.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she says. "I should - "

"Yes," comes the hoarse reply. His face is still hidden from view. There is no way of knowing if he’s still crying. He clears his throat and repeats, in a more level voice, "Yes."

Molly is hit with the thought that she should have just kept her mouth shut. Awkwardly, she gets off his lap and gracelessly flops on the bed beside him, belatedly realizing that she's sitting on the sleeve of his discarded shirt. She doesn't look at him as he stiltedly buttons up his trousers. She doesn't want to see his face, too afraid to meet his eyes.

"I... apologize for - " he says.

"No... No, it's fine - "

Silence stretches between them, but this time it is not warm, but charged with barely processed regret. Molly feels like crying herself. She doesn't know what to say. She decides to speak nonetheless.

"I - "

"You should get some sleep," he interrupts her curtly, standing up. The bed already feels empty without him. "I still have some things to attend to."

"Right."

Without another word and not bothering to put on a shirt, he crosses the room and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Molly stares at the door for long minutes afterwards, too shell-shocked to move.

He doesn't come back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I need to change the rating, but there is a not too explicit bedroom scene at the end of this chappie, so be warned. :P
> 
> Also, I fear you're going to kill me... I promise it won't be as long until my next update...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, the long awaited angsty bit. Just to let you know, despite how long it takes, I am NOT abandoning this story. :P  
> Once again thanks go to my amazing beta, Hope Tang!

**Part Five**

It takes her fifteen minutes to realize that Mycroft isn't coming back. She has redressed in her rumpled clothing, smoothed out the quilt on the bed, laid out his shirt, tie, and waistcoat on the dresser by the mirror, and has been sitting, waiting, staring numbly at the patterned wallpaper. With each passing moment, the realization settles heavy in her stomach. She feels guilty and ashamed, certain that the mess is her fault, that she has overstepped her bounds, trampling all over Mycroft's vulnerability and taking advantage of the situation.

Eventually, she ventures outside of the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Uncertain of what to do, she tiptoes her way down the hall, knocking and then trying each door, but not getting a response. As she comes down the stairs, she hears a noise in the salon. Anxious and not entirely sure she is ready for a confrontation, she nevertheless hurries inside, words of apology already nestling in her mouth. She nearly chokes on them when she comes to an abrupt stop only a couple of steps into the room.

Instead of Mycroft, as she'd expected, she sees the silent woman who had served them meals earlier in the evening. The woman is busy clearing their glasses from the small table between the armchairs, tutting at the spilled wine.

"Oh!" says Molly awkwardly. "I'm sorry! I didn't..."

The woman raises her head, startled, and then lifts an eyebrow. She reminds Molly of Anthea; confident and a bit mocking, though not outwardly malicious.

"I apologize, I thought you had already left. How may I help you?"

Molly stumbles, confused. "Um, actually, I'm looking for Mycroft, have you seen him?"

The eyebrow travels even higher. "Mr Holmes left ten minutes ago, in quite a hurry. I was sure you were with him."

Molly's stomach drops like a ton of bricks. She stares at the woman blankly until she is brought out of her stupor by a polite cough. Fortunately, she manages to get a grip on her emotions for long enough for her brain to kick back in. Feeling small under the woman's slightly amused gaze, she asks for a cab.

"Certainly," says the woman, gathering the glasses onto a tray. "I'll make the call presently."

Molly experiences a bitter reality check watching her leave. The fire is slowly dying in the hearth; it can't be more than forty-five minutes since she has sat here with Mycroft. She perches on one of the chairs at the table, wanting to be as far away from the fireplace as possible. She feels numb. The woman comes for her when the cab arrives and gives Molly one last ambiguous smile before she closes the door in her face. Emotionally spent, Molly clambers into the cab, and spends the next half hour staring balefully out the window as the suburban landscape slowly changes into the familiar sights of London at night.

*

Exhausted, Molly climbs the last steps up to her flat, wanting nothing more than to have a warm bath and a good cry. The last thing she needs is her mum opening the front door in her face when Molly tries to put in her key.

“Molly!” her mum cries shrilly. “Where on earth have you been? It's one in the bloody morning!”

“Mum…” Molly's throat closes as she is enveloped in a tight hug and then wrestled inside.

“I thought something bad happened to you! How could you just get into that man’s car and then not answer any of my texts?! I thought you’ve been kidnapped!”

The accusation derails her for a moment, until she's able to get her bearings. “Mum, I told you it was fine!” she says, forcing a smile. “Look, I’m okay... Mycroft’s... a friend and he needed some help.” The words are hard to choke out, scraping her throat and heavy on her tongue.

Her mother loses her momentum and stares at her in indignation. “Then why didn’t you answer the bloody phone?!”

Molly winces. “Because I had it on silent,” she admits, chagrined. “I’m so sorry, but you shouldn’t have worried so much!”

Her mum huffs, exasperated and a bit embarrassed. “Well, all right, perhaps I panicked a bit. But I have to say, you keep strange company. That man looked like some sort of spy! The whole thing had a sort of double-oh-seven feel to it.”

“Mum!” Molly protests with a touch of hysteria. “He is a bit ridiculous, but he’s hardly James Bond, come on! He works for the government.”

“That’s almost the same thing,” her mother says with a grin. “Where did you meet him, anyway?”

“Through a friend," says Molly. She doesn't want to think about it. She certainly doesn't want to hash it all out with her mum. She wants to clean herself up and then die. Thankfully, since it's Sunday tomorrow, she doesn't need to go to work and she's not on call this week, she can do it with a clear conscience. Her mum is the only thing standing between her and oblivion, though, so she's not above white lies. "Listen, I’m really exhausted and I have to do some work tomorrow…”

After that it’s easy to get rid of her, because her mum has a strict moral code when it comes to work, and she’s proud of her daughter for graduating from a university, even though she might have preferred it if Molly had become a GP instead of a pathologist. Still, all work is important, so she quickly gathers her things, scolds Molly about leaving Toby alone for so many hours with an empty food bowl, and goes home, grumbling.

Watching through the window, Molly waits for her mum to disappear down the tube stairs before she moves to the bathroom and starts the hot water for her bath. She sprinkles some olive-scented salt in and tops it with a dollop of foam. Then she wanders into her kitchen, Toby at her heels, to prepare a huge mug of hot chocolate. She almost lets the milk boil over onto the cooker, while she stands frozen, unseeing eyes fixed on the pot handle. She takes the scalding drink back to the bathroom, watches Toby install himself in the washbasin as the water fills the tub. She sheds her clothes quickly, cringing at unwanted flashbacks. She's eager to end one of the longest nights in her recent memory; she most certainly doesn't want to dwell on it.

The water is too hot, but Molly doesn't care. It's only when she burns her tongue on the chocolate does she snap.

"Fuck it!" she exclaims, placing the mug on the tiled shelf alongside the tub with so much force that some of the cocoa spills over, staining the tiles and dribbling down the porcelain into the bathwater. She watches the liquid with mounting anger until the emotion spills as well, burning, out of her eyes. Molly places her wet hand against her mouth and cries silently, chest heaving.

*

It comes down to this, she decides the next morning, shovelling cereal into her mouth, having triple-checked her mobile phone and finding the Remote Fashion Police thread with no updates since two days before: either he is so ashamed of himself that he doesn't know how to face her after what happened, or he is executing Holmesian levels of tact and has simply forgotten about her in face of something more pressing or interesting.

The former option only makes sense if she assumes that she was right in thinking that the reason why he more or less ran away was because he was emotionally compromised. Unfortunately, she's not sure whether she has interpreted the facts correctly. She's not even sure if they were facts at all, or if she fabricated the whole thing due to her own emotional upheaval and the wine clouding her judgment. At this point she can't be certain of anything he said or did the night before. Some bits are blurry, others come to her as vivid flashbacks, humiliating in context of what happened later. She can't remember the colour of his tie, or exactly what he told her about his grandfather, but she recalls with perfect clarity the flash of surprise that stole over his face when she moved to kiss him. She analyses it to the death, eventually coming to a conclusion that the particular furrow of his brow must have meant that he had never expected their acquaintance to take quite that turn; that it had never occurred to him until she threw herself at him, and he just decided to go with the flow instead of rejecting her on the spot. She realizes that she's being a bit hysterical, but it all seems much more plausible than her initial diagnosis. Because, for God's sake, would Mycroft Holmes really feel so ashamed to choose to avoid her? He is equipped with the coldest mask of them all, he could bluff his way through a confrontation and deny ever having been vulnerable; that's not a problem for him. There could be no logical reason for him to basically flee from her presence, that's just nuts.

All that forces her to consider the second option as much more likely. It wouldn't be the first time a Holmes dismissed her from his mind as soon as she stopped being immediately interesting or necessary. It's highly probable that his parting words - that he still had something to do - were the truth and not just an empty excuse. She can easily imagine him getting a call from some minister or other and leaving for his office, sparing no thought whatsoever for her sitting, shell-shocked and naked, in his bedroom. This line of thought it particularly ugly because it means that he does not care for her one bit after she has served her purpose. Oh, she doesn't suspect him of leading her on for the sake of having sex with her - that one is on her, to be honest; she's the one who initiated things and he's the one who went with the flow. No, it's more about the general state of things. He had her over so that she could be a distraction while he waited for the news of his brother. Once he had it, she was no longer needed, so he could focus on something else, something more important. That's what it boils down to. She misinterpreted the situation, he went with it (because it gave him a tactical advantage, perhaps? She's not sure) and then dismissed her without a second thought. She really has no one to be angry with but herself. 

She cannot afford to wallow in self-pity any more, though. If she can't heed the warning of "once bitten, twice shy", she can devise her own maxim: "twice bitten, and fuck it all". That's as good a maxim as any, she decides. On Sunday, fortified by her new resolve, she channels her anger into her work, refining her conference proposal on the spur of the moment and sending it to the European Congress of Pathology out of pure spite. There must be something she is good at; if she can't excel at relationships, she can at least make a difference in her field if she applies at least half of the effort she's wasted on finding a boyfriend on actually doing her job.

Her attitude lasts until she sees him sitting comfortably in her office chair on Monday morning at the beginning of her shift.

“Good evening,” he says amiably. “I trust you had a pleasant day?”

The sight of him, immaculate in another perfect suit, completely at ease in her office and unperturbed by the events of two nights ago first gives her a whiplash, and then sets her teeth on edge.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, trying not to stare at his tie and remember how it felt to loosen it. He inclines his head in surprise.

“You are angry,” he comments. “You do not wish to see me.”

His eyes are flat; Molly doesn’t think she’s ever seen them so cold. She presses her lips together, obliterating them into a thin line. Why does she have to fall for cruel, selfish bastards? Did it not occur to him that she might feel uncomfortable with him now? Why did he feel it prudent to seek her out and rub it in? It all proves that her second theory is sound. He doesn't even realize that he's done anything wrong. She's not sure what he wishes to accomplish by popping by to see her like this, but that hardly matters. She doesn’t need to see him behaving as if nothing at all has changed. She gets it, she really does, but she's not going to take any of this shit anymore.

“Look,” she forces through her lips. “It- It was a mistake, all right? We were both – well, pretty shaken up – and relieved that Sherlock was okay, so… “ In the end, words fail her, because it seems that she's more hurt than she lets herself realize, but it’s all right, it’s enough, he seems to understand.

“I see,” he says slowly, tonelessly. His lips twist into a smile, but it only makes him look more sinister, for his eyes are as cold as ice. “I apologize for taking your time,” he adds, standing up and fluidly placing his umbrella in the crook of his arm. “Good evening, Doctor Hooper.”

He sweeps out the door before she can respond. Spent, she collapses into her chair, trying to ignore the scent of his expensive cologne that still hangs in the air. Good riddance, she thinks weakly.

*

The next two weeks go by slowly. She receives a notification that she has been accepted to the Congress, so Molly pours all of her energy into her work, holing herself up in her lab to work on her research, going home only to sleep, which is more of a chore than a respite. Four times she dreams of him and his waistcoat buttons and wakes up aching with need, disgust and shame. Toby glares at her in reproach from the foot of her bed, wondering why she’s losing sleep over her own stupidity. She doesn’t know how to answer, so she just shoves the cat off the mattress in anger and ignores him when he starts to sulk.

Her period comes and goes, and with it the niggling worry, and what remains is a hot feeling of humiliation and shameful longing which she cannot seem to shake.

It’s not as if she’s no longer functional, though. She’s had her share of heartbreak and she knows how to deal with it. She divides her emotions into labelled compartments and never opens the more volatile ones without protective gloves. Eventually, she leaves them be, closed forever, not caring about what festers inside. She’s stronger than she looks, she tells herself, she’s going to be fine.

Still, sometimes, when she has nothing more pressing to think about, she lets her mind wander, and analyses. She wonders whether she might have been romanticizing him and he really is as emotionless as he appears, in which case she behaved like a silly schoolgirl playing right into his calculating, opportunistic hands; other times she’s certain that she hasn’t imagined it at all, and those times are actually worse, because that means that he was worth it all, only she wasn't enough to keep his interest. Because, let’s face it, what would a man like him want from  _her_ ?

The resounding silence is eloquent enough.

So time passes by, Molly works, reads, cleans her flat, and feeds her sulking cat. When Meena asks her out for coffee, she agrees gladly, happy to have something to do.

Turns out she wants to set her up with her boyfriend’s mate.

“He’s a really sweet guy,” Meena gushes. “You’d like him.”

Molly grimaces. “Well, I don’t know. I have a history of liking cruel bastards,” she says bitterly.

“All the more reason to start looking for something different,” Meena presses. “Besides, it can’t really be that bad, can it? It was only that one guy, that detective. All of your other boyfriends were sweet.”

“I didn’t have that many of them. And I didn’t actually like them all that much, either, except for Stephen, and he cheated on me, so that makes him a cruel bastard too.” She decides not to mention Jim from IT who turned out to be a murderous psychopath. She doesn’t want to lose her friend to a heart attack.

Meena purses her lips. “Well, okay. But I still think you should try it with Tom. Unless you have another cold prat on your mind?”

Molly can’t help but flinch.

“Oh, God, you do, don’t you?” her friend cries in surprise. “Who is he?”

“He’s not important. It doesn’t matter anymore,” she backtracks quickly, but not quickly enough.

“Not anymore? Did something happen?”

Once again she curses her expressive face, but decides it’s better to give in quickly than to drag it out.

“Meena, it’s nothing, really. It’s a bit classic: I’ve been seeing – well, meeting occasionally – this uptight man in ridiculous suits, and for a moment there I thought he wasn’t as cold as he lets on. Obviously I was wrong.”

Her friend blinks at her owlishly. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Molly – “

“No, Meena, please, just drop it. I’ll even agree to this blind date if you just leave it alone, okay?”

The other woman hesitates, but then gives in. “All right. Is a double date fine with you? We could all go see a movie, or something.”

“Yes, fine, okay,” Molly agrees, breathing a sigh of relief. She really doesn’t want to talk, or even think, about the feel of Mycroft Holmes’ naked chest against her skin.

Chinese chimes twitter sweetly above the door as a woman leaves the café. For a second Molly thinks she looks a bit like Anthea, but then she dismisses it. She doesn’t want to think about her, either.

*

A couple of days later, a car is waiting for her outside of Bart’s. For a moment Molly considers ignoring it, but she wants to hear about Sherlock and, damn her, she wants to see Mycroft, too. Even so, she’s a bit surprised by the sheer force of her disappointment when the door opens to reveal Anthea, who climbs out with poise and hardly a hair out of place.

“Oh,” Molly mutters. “It’s you.”

The other woman raises her perfect eyebrows. “I’m to tell you that everything is going along nicely and not to worry.”

Molly stares at her, comprehension dawning slowly, obstructed by another sting of rejection. So he’s not even going to meet her in person now, is he? Is talking to her face to face so repugnant that he has to risk passing information about his brother through his subordinates? (It’s a good thing that Sherlock is okay, though. The one good thing out of this whole messed up situation.)

“Oh, I see,” she says dully. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Anthea responds simply. Molly swallows the bitter taste in her mouth and turns to leave, when Anthea continues. “That’s all from the Boss, but I have something personal to say to you.”

Molly blinks in confusion. “Something personal?”

“A bit of advice, if you will.”

Molly bristles. She doesn’t need any advice from this woman, even though she’s more beautiful, confident, and successful that Molly could ever hope to be. Naturally, Anthea ignores her obvious indignation and speaks anyway.

“Men are idiots,” she tells Molly simply. “But we are even bigger idiots by assuming they aren’t.”

She gives her one last cryptic smile and climbs back into the car, leaving Molly stunned on the sidewalk.

*

A few more days pass, during which Molly analyses Anthea’s “advice” from every angle, and eventually dismisses it as being unrelated to her in any way. She doesn’t want to think about Mycroft’s assistant being aware of the nature of their… association. Still, the words linger, making her wonder about their purpose and meaning, and sometimes she thinks that maybe Anthea was trying to tell her that things are not as they seem. But it’s dangerous to hope, so Molly forces herself to stop thinking about it.

She’s woefully unprepared to find Mycroft in her office again.

“I was informed that you wish to speak to me,” he tells her stiffly, forgoing any form of greeting, eyes carefully trained on the handle of his umbrella. “I trust you received the news about my brother?”

For a long moment Molly can’t find her voice, too overwhelmed by his presence and the staggering relief it causes. She knew she had feelings for him, but this is simply ridiculous. The situation appears to be a hundred times worse than she suspected. Has she really no sense of preservation? How could she have fallen so deeply for this man?

“Well?” he prompts impatiently. “I haven’t got all day.”

“I don’t know where you got the idea,” she replies crossly, startled out of her unwelcome epiphany. “I can take a hint, you know? I just wish you were more careful about what you pass on to strangers.”

He raises his head for the first time since she entered and fixes her with an affronted look.

“Are you telling me how to do my job, _Doctor_ Hooper? I was under the impression you were a pathologist, not a spy.”

She grits her teeth. “And I was under the impression that you were more professional than to risk your brother’s secret because of a petty wish to avoid me!”

A muscle in his cheek twitches in anger. “You made it plain that you had no interest in enduring my presence.”

“What are you talking about? I never said anything like that!” He appears like he wants to counter, but this time she is quicker. “And you waited three bloody _weeks_ to tell me! The least you could do was show up!”

He scoffs, derision pouring off of him in waves.

“I wanted to update you over breakfast, but by the time I returned from a rather urgent meeting you had already gone, so perhaps you were not that interested in the news after all,” he tells her acidly.

Molly stares, uncomprehending. “Over… breakfast?”

“Yes. I gather it is good manners to share breakfast after spending an evening together,” he elaborates. “But I realize now it would have been unwelcome. I apologize for my presumption.”

“You… planned to have breakfast with me that day,” she repeats, feeling dumb.

“As a common courtesy only, I assure you,” he replies coldly, and all of her stupid hopes are dashed again.

“I see,” she mutters, trying very hard not to give in to tears of frustration. She’s not sure how long she’ll last, though.

“Now is that all you had to say, or is there something else?”

She shakes her head. “No, no, there isn’t.”

“Good bye, then, Doctor Hooper.”

He’s out the door in a flash, and she leans on her document cabinet, feeling utterly miserable. Fortunately, there is no one to see her cry in the morgue, save for the late Ms Meyers, but Molly’s fairly certain she’s not going to judge.

*

The double-date that Meena promised her comes into fruition on a drizzly day at the beginning of June, just two weeks before Sheila's wedding. The four of them go to the cinema for a pleasant action flick and then head for an Indian restaurant. Meena and Josh are trailing behind, ostensibly giving the two of them some privacy, even though it’s obvious it’s not going to work out. Tom is a cheerful sort of fellow, very upbeat, and he’s been very nice to her so far, but she’s not stupid, she saw his uncertain smile when she told him she was a pathologist. She’s going to have to talk to Meena about that; there’s no use trying to set her up with anyone if she’s not going to mention her profession to them. Obscuring the truth by saying she’s just a regular doctor is just setting her up for another disappointment.

“So, uh, I hear you have a cat?” Tom grins at her, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’s some sort of an IT specialist, and the thought gives her the shivers. He doesn’t look like a closet megalomaniac, but that’s not saying much, is it? A clever psychopath has many disguises; it’s how he walks unnoticed through society, and you would not recognize one even if you tried.

“Yeah,” she nods, trying to muster up enough interest. “His name’s Toby. Do you, um, do you have any pets of your own?”

“I have a dog. I used to have a cat too, a nasty old thing, scratched right through all of my furniture,” he jokes. “I’m thinking of getting a new one, though… Do you know of a shelter I could go to?”

She frowns. He’s trying so hard to make her like him that it’s beginning to sound suspicious. Perhaps she’s being paranoid, but he just appears to be too good to be true: nice-looking, but not terribly handsome, a perfect blend of shy and easy-going, and a bit of a dork – an ideal match for her, really, in light of the idea that nerds marry other nerds.

She gives him directions to a couple of places, including the one she got Toby from, but then the conversation grows stilted, though Tom valiantly carries on talking despite her obvious disinterest. She longs for a companionable silence, tired of awkward social interaction. She wants to go home and not think about people at all.

At some point, she notices that he’s become agitated. There’s sweat on his brow and his eyes are a bit manic, flashing around as if searching for something.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s stupid.”

“What is?” she presses, interested.

“Well, uh,” he gives her a sideways glance, braces himself and then leans over to whisper in her ear. “I think the surveillance cameras are following us.”

She flinches in surprise and immediately looks around, finding the camera with ease born out of forced habit. Its eye is fixed on her, turning after her as she passes.

“No, no, don’t look!” Tom cries anxiously.

“What’s going on?” Meena asks curiously as she and Josh catch up to them on the sidewalk.

“We’re being watched!” hisses Tom, clearly panicked.

Josh is exasperated. “Oh, come on, mate. This is getting ridiculous – “

“No, really, look - !”

Molly tunes it out, staring hard at the camera, wondering if it’s really him watching, or if it’s Anthea, or any of his other subordinates. But the thing she wants to know the most is why is he watching her in the first place, if her presence is such a chore to him? She hates that he’s so confusing, doing things without any sort of sensible explanation. She’d like to respond somehow, to reach out, to finally get through to him and give him a piece of her mind, but she doesn’t know how. She could ask Meena for a piece of paper from her handbag and write him a note. She can imagine writing  _What do you want from me?_ in block letters and shoving it in front of the camera like a challenge. But she doesn’t have enough courage for that, and, besides, she can’t be sure if it’s not Anthea behind the monitor, mocking smile on her perfect lips, and, of course, on this side of the CCTV Meena would never let her live it down. 

The camera slides away, almost guiltily, and Molly shakes her head.

“Well, that was silly,” she laughs awkwardly. Meena gives her a strange glance, but doesn’t comment, and the four of them resume walking.

“Mate, you’re never going to get laid if you don’t stop with the conspiracy theories,” Josh mutters angrily to Tom, and she pretends not to hear, just as she pretends that she doesn’t notice the shrewd, considering look on her date’s face and the way he widens the distance between them as they walk. If Mycroft's goal had been to ruin her chances with Tom, she thinks dully, then he has most certainly achieved it.

*

In the end, she goes emergency dress shopping with her mum and Meena with only two days to spare before the wedding.

“I’m sorry to say, but you’re hopeless at this, Molls,” her friend tells her after she has tried on half a dozen overpriced, colourful atrocities. “You have to decide on something, you know.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I don’t like anything you bring me,” she snaps from the changing room. She misses fashion texting with Mycroft, misses his help, misses his caustic comments, misses giggling like a lunatic over silly clothes. But she’s also furious and bitter, and wishes he had never been kind to her, that she had never seen the dork he pretends so hard doesn’t exist, because now it would be so much easier to feel nothing, to move on, but instead she’s stuck and unhappy. She’s physically and emotionally exhausted, and it has turned her into a frustrated, angry, and petulant child. There’s nothing she wants more at the moment than to go home, curl up on her bed, and cry.

“She was the same when we were buying that black and silver dress for that Christmas party,” Meena tells Molly’s mother. “We spent hours looking for it, and then she went and ruined it by putting on a bra with visible straps and a gift bow in her hair!”

Molly flinches in hurt. “It’s not like he even cared,” she bits out. “As if I could compete with that not-her-face woman and her stupid moan! And his stupid git of a brother can go to hell and shag his brolly for all I care!”

She marches out of the changing room, ignoring the stunned looks on their faces, and throws the dresses at the bewildered shop clerk.

“Molly!” her mum calls after her, and she slows down enough for the two of them to catch up with her.

“Molls, are you all right?” Meena asks, catching her arm.

“No, I’m not. I’m old, stupid, and ugly, and no one will ever love me,” she answers flatly, but her lip trembles precariously. “And I have the worst rotten luck in the whole world.”

“Oh, Molly,” her Mum sighs softly. “I think we need to forget about dresses for a while and go for a drink instead.”

“Seconded,” says Meena.

Molly shakes her head. “I can’t drown my sorrows in a public place. He already thinks I’m pathetic, there’s no need to prove it any further.”

“He’s not going to see you, whoever he is,” her mother assures her. “London’s a big place, what are the chances of anyone seeing you?”

“Oh, he has eyes everywhere,” she mutters, but lets herself be dragged to a pub anyway.

Her mood deteriorates with each new drink, but she still holds her tongue, keeping silent about anything related to Sherlock, Mycroft and Moriarty. Her mother and Meena try to cheer her up with empty reassurances. They tell her that she’s still young and pretty, that it’s not too late, and that she just has to keep looking and she’ll find him, her Mr Right, but Molly recognizes the words as the empty platitudes they are. In the end, they leave the pub without having accomplished anything.

There’s a black car waiting for them outside. Molly stops in her tracks, not quite believing her eyes.

“Good evening, Ma’am,” says the driver standing beside it. “I’m here to take you home.”

Molly loses it. What a bloody pompous arse! She’s so angry that she can’t speak. She strides past without a word, her mum and friend trailing after her uncertainly.

“Ma’am!” the driver calls after her. “Mr Holmes specifically said – “

“Well, fuck you! And fuck _Mr Holmes_ , too!” she shrieks, too drunk to stop herself. “Tell him to leave me the bloody hell alone! Oh, wait, you _don’t need to_ , because he’s listening to us right now, isn’t he?! Well, then, fine, _fuck you, Mycroft_!” she yells into the night, feeling strangely liberated. The driver is aghast, and so are Meena and her mum, but _she doesn’t care_. Furious, she turns on her heel and marches down the street towards the Tube. 

“What the _hell_ was that about?” Meena demands a couple of minutes later, when the three of them are standing on the platform. 

Molly’s fury is beginning to recede, replaced slowly by staggering shame.

“Oh, God!” she gasps into her hand. “I told you I couldn’t go to a public place! Oh, my God…”

“Molly, I don’t understand – “ her mum tells her, but Molly just shakes her head, clams her mouth shut, and remains silent on the way home.

She barely stops herself from slamming the door in their faces as she waves her mum and Meena away. She is not in the mood to answer their questions or worry about their concern.

What she doesn't know is that apparently the universe is out to get her tonight.

There is a large dark cardboard box sitting on her coffee table, looking vaguely designer as far as she can see the golden lettering on the lid from underneath Toby's fur. The person who left it on her table clearly had no notion of the relationship that exists between cats and boxes. Toby is perched on top of the offending object, duck-style, with his elbows pointing to the ceiling, eyes half-closed, and looking ridiculous. Molly is torn between hysteria and mounting rage, because even she can deduce who is responsible for the box on her table in the first place.

She shoos her cat away and wastes no time in opening up the bloody thing. She's not even remotely surprised to see that it contains a dress. A beautiful, expensive, tasteful green dress, ideal for a summer wedding.

 

*

After much agonized consideration, Molly decides that, despite how mortified, confused and hurt she feels, she’ll wear the dress to Sheila’s wedding, because she’s nothing if not practical, and she knows that she’ll never manage to find a suitable outfit before the deadline. Besides, the dress fits like a glove, and it’s really quite beautiful.

“Where on earth have you found this, Molls?” Meena exclaims upon seeing it. “It’s gorgeous!”

"I got it online," she lies. The wedding is in three hours and she's harried and cranky. "Why are you here, anyway? Come to make sure I put on the right bra because I can't seem to dress myself properly?"

Meena grimaces in hurt. "Look, I'm only here as moral support. I can go if you don't want me here."

"No, don't go," Molly mutters, deflated. "Sorry. I'm just... really tired recently."

"Yeah, I've noticed. Might telling me what's going on?"

"Not really..."

Meena's expression eases into sympathy and she gives Molly a hug. Molly lets herself be enveloped in her friend's arms, breathing in her heavy floral perfume. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I've been a beast lately."

"Yeah, that's true," Meena agrees with a laugh. "I still love you, though. I wish you would just tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing, really. I'm just more stupid than I've ever imagined."

"Molly," Meena says softly. "Come on."

Molly thinks how nice would it be to just spill the beans to someone. She could edit all the more dangerous details and just stick to her misguided attachment to Mycroft. That one is sure as hell not a state secret and it wouldn't endanger anyone if her best friend knew of her romantic woes. She could unload a bit, find a sympathetic ear, and possibly, finally begin to move on. It's not a crime to need your friend once in a while, is it?

"Okay," she says. "I'll tell you all about it. Only it'll have to wait till tomorrow, because if I start now, I can't guarantee I won't become a blubbering mess by the end of it and I do need to maintain some sort of dignity at the wedding."

"All right. You're on." Meena kisses her on the cheek gently and disentangles herself. "Right then! Show me how you look in that killer dress!"

They spend the next two hours in companionable conversation, talking dresses, make-up and work, avoiding any prickly topics, and slowly but surely preparing Molly for the event. When they're nearly finished, she admires herself in the bathroom mirror while putting on her make-up. The dress is nigh on perfect for her skin-tone and general colouring, making her skin glow rather than showcasing its British pallor. Her hair is flowing freely around her face and down her back, a bit of a curl added to it for volume. All in all she looks surprisingly pleasant, which gives her an unexpected boost of confidence.

The doorbell rings when Molly is finishing her mascara. Meena throws her an "I'll get it!" and dashes out of the bathroom. Molly is too distracted by the fact that she has just jabbed her mascara wand into her eyebrow and needs to get rid of the damage to even wonder who might be calling on her. Meena comes back in a jiff, a curious look on her face.

"Um... Your date is here."

Molly pauses her efforts in rubbing off the stray mascara from her eyebrow, and turns to stare at her. "What?"

"You didn't tell me you had a date!" Meena hisses in reproach. She might as well be speaking in tongues.

"Meena, I don't have a date to my cousin's wedding," Molly answers calmly. "What on earth are you on about?"

"I'd believe you if there wasn't a man standing in your living room!"

"A man?" Molly asks dumbly.

"Yes, a man! A man in a bloody three-piece suit and a pocket square that might as well have been cut off from your mysterious dress!"

Molly's mind slows down even more. She walks out of the bathroom, the mascara dots still adorning her eyebrow, only to freeze, shocked into stillness by the sight of Mycroft Holmes standing tall and somewhat awkwardly on her fluffy carpet, Toby watching him curiously from the sofa.

"Wha - " she begins, then shuts her mouth with an audible click.

"Hello," he says pleasantly, face rigidly blank. "I trust the dress is to your tastes. You do look quite fetching, if I may say so."

'Whiplash' does not even begin to cover how she's feeling right now. Her mind stops for a second, and then restarts, yanking open the carefully hidden compartments of her hurt. She wants to sock him in the jaw, and simultaneously wishes that he would just disappear and leave her alone. A small part of her poisons her thoughts with hope and outrageous possibilities. Mostly, though, she is just so very, very tired.

Meena chooses that moment to dart from the bathroom.

"Well, I'll be leaving now," she mutters, giving Mycroft a polite nod, and sending Molly a look that clearly says 'we'll be having words later' mixed with 'he's okay, could have done worse, I expect details!'. A second later, they are alone.

“Your pocket square is green,” she blurts out, cringing. Can her fixation with his clothes get any worse?

“An excellent observation,” he comments a bit stiffly. “What might you deduce from that?”

She looks at him in disbelief. “You… You want to be my date to my cousin Sheila’s wedding?”

“Only if you wish it,” he clarifies, raising an eyebrow. The tone of his voice is studiously proper as he delivers his next words. “I will not impose on you if you don’t.”

“But… why…?”

“Treat it as an apology.”

“An apology?” she repeats dumbly. “For what?”

He grimaces, for the first time showing any kind of emotion. It's a bit of embarrassment and... regret, maybe? “For poorly handling the situation. I realize now that I might have blundered. I apologize for my behaviour.”

His words cut through her like ice picks. Of course, she thinks dully. Well, he did mishandle the situation, that’s true, even though she’s not quite sure she’d have preferred to be let down gently instead. Still, his idea of an apology is dreadful. Why ever did he think it would be a good idea to apologize for trampling all over her feelings so spectacularly by being her date of all things?

She’s so tired of this. Her crush on Sherlock had been nothing compared to the emotional desert she has found herself in. She’s not going to find anything to drink here even if she searched for a thousand years.

“I think,” she says eventually, wincing at his expectant look. “I think that the dress is enough. Thank you, it’s really… pretty.”

His expression shutters closed so fast that Molly blinks in surprise. “I’m glad to hear it, Doctor Hooper,” he answers coldly. “I am sorry for the imposition. Good day.”

“Wait!” she calls, thoroughly annoyed. “What? No, don’t look at me like that. Just _what_ is your problem? How dare you be angry with me?!”

“I’m sorry?” he counters stiffly.

“You heard me! You treat me like I’m nothing, and I get it, I really do, but you still come back to rub it in! What, did you think I’d enjoy being your pity date?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, his gaze assessing.

“And what was it the other night?!” Molly’s on a roll; she’s so angry she could spit. “Am I really so entertaining? Did you have fun mocking me?”

He narrows his eyes. “I merely worried about your safety.”

“Well, don’t,” she snaps. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Yes, fearless Molly Hooper, wandering the streets of London, piss-drunk, a droll sight indeed, and a perfect bait for anyone wishing to extract crucial information.”

The flippant tone of his voice as he delivers the last blow is her undoing. Something inside of her snaps and she knows for certain that if he doesn’t leave this very moment he’s going to witness her making a blubbering spectacle of herself. The first tears, held back with heroic effort, now burn her eyes.

“Of course you’d think so little of me,” she sniffs, pathetic and sniveling. “Just go… Please, just go away.”

But he doesn’t move, standing tall and blank, and Molly just wants to hit him so hard… And then he shifts and lets out a breath.

“ _Ah._ ”

He stands there and stares at her with raised eyebrows, as if he’d just figured something out, and the panic takes her breath away.

“Yes, definitely,” he speaks quietly. “The situation has been gravely mishandled. I shall rectify it immediately.”

Then, to her complete shock, he steps forward and embraces her. The feel of his arms coming around her is like an electric shock. Molly finds herself pressed tightly into his chest, face buried between his tie and the lapel of his waistcoat, body slack with astonishment, her anger completely gone in face of the unexplainable events.

“Forgive me. I seem to have misinterpreted the facts,” he laughs scornfully above her head. “It appears that this sort of thing makes fools even of the best of us.”

“What – “

“Molly, will you allow me to accompany you to your cousin’s wedding? But this time please treat it not as an apology, but as my state of intent.”

Molly feels as if she's fallen into an alternative reality. She pushes away and looks up. His face, oh, God, his face is actually… earnest. What? It's like she's missed a couple of steps along the way of this logical cause and effect chain.

“State of what?” she asks faintly.

He smiles down at her. “Will you accept it?”

“I, uh,” she flounders, disbelieving. “What…?”

“Will you accept my suit?” he repeats, and for a second there it seems like he’s actually nervous. Molly experiences a sudden onslaught of hysteria. Is he... declaring himself to her? As in, romantically? The words don't compute, but he's looking at her as if he's expecting some answer.

“I – yes,” she utters with difficulty, not really sure what she's accepting. “Yes.”

Mycroft’s expression eases. “Well, then. Since we do not wish to be late, I recommend you to freshen up and let us be on our way. The car is waiting downstairs.”

He lets her go and Molly stumbles to her bathroom in a daze, throwing several confused looks over her shoulder. She takes a couple of deep breaths while looking at herself in the mirror. She finishes cleaning the tiny mascara dots from her eyebrow absently. What has just happened?

Mycroft is still there when she goes back, and she almost pinches herself at the sight of him scratching her purring cat under the chin.

He welcomes her with a pleasant smile. “Shall we?”

Molly nods stupidly, accepts his proffered arm, and allows him to lead her outside.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, sorry for the wait, AGAIN. And thank you for all your support and lovely comments! :*
> 
> I can't say when the final part is going to be published, but rest assured, it WILL come, as this story is not, and never will be, abandoned. 
> 
> As for this chapter, it is not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. For ultimate reading pleasure I recommend playing the song towards the end, as it was one of the inspirations for this story...
> 
> So, without further ado, have at it, let the fluff commence.

**Part Six**

The ride to the church is… quiet and strange. They sit awkwardly in the back of the car while London passes them outside the window. Molly doesn’t bother asking him how he knows their destination. She has long accepted it as a fact of life that he knows everything.

Except when he doesn’t.

“Mycroft…” she ventures, hating herself for sounding so timid. “I don’t – I don’t understand.”

He passes her a surprised glance. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“Sorry,” she cringes. “It’s just… Could you… I don’t know, explain it to me one more time?”

He ponders her words for a moment. “Very well. Perhaps it’s for the best. What is it that you don’t understand?”

Molly’s tempted to say “everything”, but bites her tongue.

“Well, um. I thought you weren’t… interested in me. I mean, like that.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he seems genuinely curious.

_Well, because I’m me?_ she wants to ask. _Because you’re you? Because you completely abandoned me after we had sex?_ She eventually settles on:

“You were… cold. After.”

He scoffs. “I seem to recall you calling the event a mistake. I think it makes us even.”

“But,” she protests faintly. “It was just… It was because… I mean… _I mean_ , I just said it because I thought that’s what you were going to say.”

The stare he gives her is calculating. “And what made you think _that_?”

She wants to shake him. And he’s supposed to be so smart!

“Mycroft, _you ran away_.”

“Ah,” he nods, face blank. “Well, therein lies the crux of the matter.”

“What?”

“You misunderstood my intention. I was called away and had to attend to some matters of import – “

“Oh, bosh. And you couldn’t have told me?”

“I did tell you.” She remembers his half-mumbled words as he was leaving the room and snorts.

“You didn’t tell me that you were leaving the house!”

He almost rolls his eyes. “Fine, I will be more specific next time, if that shall save us from unnecessary misunderstandings.”

“Don’t be so… _blasé_ about it, okay?” she snaps. “It hurt.”

He pauses, considering. “I apologize. That was never my intent.”

“Yes, I know, you were going to return and have a polite breakfast with me.”

“My aim was for ‘pleasant’ rather than ‘polite’. Or rather, that was the mild option, for my actual intentions were more along the lines of ‘sensual’ and did not involve food.”

She blinks. She can barely wrap her mind around what she’s hearing. “Did you just – “

“I believe I did,” he grumbles.

Molly’s frustration bursts like a soap bubble and she’s left with a growing feeling of giddiness. She can hardly believe it, but the whole thing seems to have been a misunderstanding of epic proportions. She thought he was rejecting her, and he thought that she was the one who was not interested. How have they managed to arrive at this point, she has no idea. It’s completely ridiculous. She starts to giggle.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry, but this is… this is really silly.”

“Rather,” he concedes, a bit chagrined.

She laughs helplessly, finding the situation – and the disgruntled wrinkle over his nose – completely hilarious. She can’t believe the tangled mess her life has become. Then she remembers something else.

“Oh, God, Anthea!” she exclaims, feeling both embarrassed and vastly amused.

“What about her?”

“Nothing, she just gave me this advice – oh dear!” she giggles.

“Advice?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s nothing, forget about it.”

“Molly.”

“No, really, forget it.”

And, surprisingly, he gives in, huffing in amusement. His gaze is warm and affectionate, and Molly looks back at him in wonder. She feels light and fluttery, and suddenly, staring at this ridiculous uptight man, she realizes that she’s never been surer about anything in her life. And oddly, unexpectedly, he might actually feel the same way.

It’s a strange, strange life they lead.

When the car pulls to a stop, though, Molly begins to panic.

“Wait,” she cries, reaching out and putting a hand on Mycroft’s arm before he can even think of getting out. “Are we… Are we really doing this?”

“Would you rather go alone?” he asks her, face impassive.

“No! No, I mean, well… What I mean is, are you sure about this? It’s my entire family out there… I don’t… Oh, why are you doing this?”

“Why do you think I’m doing this?” he asks impatiently.

“Oh, can’t you for once give me a straight answer?” she bristles, but answers anyway. “Because, I don’t know, you feel obligated? That’s what you said, that it was an apology…”

“And then I said it was my state of intent.”

“So which one is it? And what does that even _mean_? Because, well, because if you’re planning on going as my date now, and then later just bugger off, then I’d rather you didn’t - ”

“Molly – “

“ – because, well, I’d never live it down, okay? Pathetic brainy spinster Molly coming to her cousin’s wedding with a strange man who is never seen again – it’ll be the topic of conversation for years to come.”

“Molly,” he rolls his eyes, exasperated. “A state of intent implies a serious declaration.”

She falters. “It does?”

“Yes. How blunt do I have to be for you to understand?” He looks completely put-upon, just short of throwing up his hands in frustration.

“Quite blunt,” she squeaks.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, fine!” he snaps. “I want to pursue a romantic relationship with you, is that blunt enough?”

For a moment she is blown away. Then she giggles. The affront visible on his face doesn’t help.

“You’re really quite ridiculous, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I assure you, I am not,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry,” she gasps. “I like you better when you’re being ridiculous.”

He sniffs in distaste, but the skin around his eyes is crinkling with affection. “Is this fondness for my presumably ridiculous ways enough for you to accept?”

The mirth fades. Molly regards him steadily, taken aback by the sincerity of the request and the accompanying uncertainty, and even though she can hardly believe what she’s hearing, there really is only one thing she can do.

“Yes,” she answers shyly. “Of course.”

“Good,” he replies slowly, savouring it.

They stare at each other for a moment in a silence that is warm and full. Molly doesn’t think she has ever felt more at peace.

“Shall we, then?” he asks eventually.

They step out of the car hand in hand.

*

At first no one notices them. The person who ushers them inside is Ryan’s mother, who doesn’t spare them a second glance. Molly keeps her hand on Mycroft’s arm as they walk down the aisle in search of a place to sit. It takes her a couple of seconds to spot her mother and aunt conversing at the front. She feels the bubble of her calm bursting into tiny pieces. Oh, God, is she supposed to…?

“I feel it is high time I introduced myself, don’t you think?” Mycroft tells her gently and proceeds to lead her straight to the two oblivious women. Molly feels all her blood rushing to her face.

“Mum,” she calls softly. “Auntie.”

“Oh, Molly, you’re here! I was worried you weren’t coming – Oh, hello,” her aunt falters, eyes sweeping over Mycroft’s imposing presence in undisguised curiosity. Molly’s mum turns and her mouth falls open in surprise.

“Um, Mum, Auntie, this is Mycroft Holmes,” she says, omitting the additional label at the end, because she honestly has no idea what to call him. “Mycroft, this is my mother, Andrea Hooper, and my aunt, Sylvia McMillan.”

“My pleasure,” Mycroft inserts smoothly, the image of a perfect gentleman, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “It’s an honour to finally meet Molly’s family.”

Her mother flounders. “Well, er, it’s always a pleasure to meet a… friend of Molly’s,” she answers, a bit flustered, the slight pause before the word “friend” accompanied by a questioning glance at her daughter. Molly gives her a nervous smile and a nod. Her Mum’s eyebrows lift.

For the next several minutes Molly watches in wonder as Mycroft effortlessly charms her aunt, effusing enough posh gentleman vibes to keel off the most disapproving of middle aged women. Her aunt is by no means a formidable opponent: in thirty seconds straight she starts tittering like a schoolgirl. He is some fifteen years younger than her, so to her he must seem like the epitome of a handsome young man, which Molly finds absolutely ridiculous. The only thing that dampens her mirth is the fact that Mycroft’s charms don’t seem to be working on her mother. Molly sees her pointed looks and knows that she is in for a “talk” later. Right now, though, Sheila and Ryan are getting married, so they all sit down in one of the front pews, Molly in the centre with her mother on the right and Mycroft on the left.

They don’t sit particularly close, inches separating their thighs and shoulders, and any wild thoughts she might have had about feeling awkward fly out the window, because this is not awkward, this is pleasant and peaceful. She doesn’t feel like she needs to prove anything to anyone because, well, Mycroft Holmes is here with her when he could be anywhere else in the world. So she smiles brightly, content to feel his presence at her side, and ignores her mother’s misguided concern.

*

“So, uh, Mycroft,” Sheila asks a couple of hours later, during dinner. “What do you do, exactly?”

Her cousin looks really pretty in her puffy wedding dress, her beautiful dark wavy hair twisted into an elaborate style. For once, though, Molly doesn’t feel self-conscious next to her beauty, feeling a little bit like the Swan that grew out of the Ugly Duckling. She’s both a bit embarrassed and very amused at Sheila’s unease. Molly's plus one has become somewhat of a sensation, at the same time skillfully managing to deflect the interest of her family so that none of the necessary attention is stolen from the bride and the groom. He’s ever the diplomat, charming everyone and their grandma, making everyone like him, so that the teasing she thought she would definitely receive never really comes. She watches his efforts with fascination. It’s really no wonder he pulls all the strings in the government.

Still, all the king’s men couldn’t stop this dinner from being just a tiny bit embarrassing.

“I occupy a minor position in the Home Office,” Mycroft answers with a pleasant smile.

“Really?” Ryan’s father eyes him suspiciously. “I’ve never seen you in the papers.”

“As I said, it’s only a minor position,” he explains modestly. “The media are not interested in me.”

_Or rather, you never allow them to realize you’re there_ , Molly thinks wryly. His eyes flash to her in amusement, as if he’s read her mind. She gives him a smirk.

“So where did you meet our Molly?” This time it’s Tyler, Sheila’s younger brother. He’s twenty three and cocky, because he’s recently become a lorry driver and all he talks about are his weekly trips to the continent. He’s the family cosmopolitan, or at least that’s how he sees himself. Molly personally thinks he’s an insufferable brat and she’s glad that he’s at least not started on his favourite topic, which is the varying fashion choices of highway hookers.

“We met through a mutual acquaintance,” Mycroft answers mildly.

“So you do get to meet real people in a morgue?” Tyler chortles. “See, our Molly is not really a social butterfly, no? I was sure she’d never find a bloke at all.”

Molly cringes. Tyler doesn’t seem to realize that he’s talking to a man almost twenty years his senior and gives Mycroft a stupid grin and a wink. Auntie Sylvia tries to shush her son, but without success, and the look on her face tells her that, even though she’s embarrassed by Tyler's forwardness, she doesn’t necessarily disagree with the general idea. Molly knows that, despite being loving and supportive, the family from her mother’s side have a deeply-repressed tendency to see her as a snobby spinster with too many degrees, someone who can’t enjoy life and has wasted her youth on books and dead bodies. Being a pathologist is not a job for a young woman, they think. Frankly, they find her both morbid and slightly ridiculous. Molly knows this, and has mostly come to terms with it, but it’s humiliating that Mycroft is here to witness her family’s rudeness.

“Is that so?” Mycroft says in a genial tone, but his eyes are glacial. “I’m afraid you have yet much to learn, Mr McMillan.”

He doesn’t stop to gloat over Tyler's confused affront, and instead steers the conversation to safer topics. Soon, his novelty wears off and he stops being the centre of attention. The rest of the dinner passes without incident and it’s not long before Sheila and Ryan are twirling on the dance floor in their first dance as a married couple.

Instead of focusing on her cousin, Molly finds herself stealing glances at the man at her side. He’s sipping his wine with a relaxed half-smile.

“Thank you,” she mutters eventually.

“Whatever for?” he asks mildly.

“For everything, I guess. This is… really nice.” She cringes and looks at her hands, feeling her cheeks flush. “I know this is a bit less… tasteful than you’re used to,” she adds very quietly, eyeing the garishly decorated candlestick that occupies half the table. “And my family… can be a handful. So I just – I appreciate that you’re here. Even if I’m still not exactly sure why.”

She feels him shift in the chair beside her.

“I thought that we’ve resolved this issue,” he comments carefully.

Molly purses her lips. “I’m sorry, but it’s just so… I’m not used to… I mean, it’s just so sudden…”

“What can I say to convince you?”

“Don’t change your mind,” she whispers pitifully.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him put down his glass and reach out to clasp her hand. His touch is warm and reassuring, and yet she can’t help but doubt his intentions.

Then she notices something that makes her breath hitch.

“Your ring is gone,” she says, trying for casual interest, and failing.

“My ring?”

“Yes, um, your wedding ring.”

His bare fingers tighten on her hand. He sighs. “Oh, Molly. It’s not a wedding ring.”

She blinks, then looks at him in surprise. He looks serious. “It’s not?”

“Of course not. It’s a gadget.”

“But… why?”

“I can't quite explain its purpose,” he says mildly. “If I did, I would need to have you killed, and that is obviously not feasible.”

“Right,” she laughs shrilly after she's had a moment to process. “Right. So there’s no... um, no Mrs Holmes then?”

“Of course not.”

“Or Mr Holmes?”

“No Mr Holmes either. Well, if you don't count me. Or my father. Or that person who shall remain unnamed.”

“Um, good,” she chokes out.

“Quite.”

She stares at him, mapping his familiar features, taking in his intent gaze and the slight curve of his lips, and she feels the heavy weight lift from her shoulders. He is actually serious about this. As improbable as it may seem, it is really happening. After so many months of thinking about it, it feels strange and somewhat anti-climactic, like the start of every relationship. The shift from not-being to being is subtle and mundane, and yet she knows that later she will look back to this moment and she’ll find it magical and life changing.

Gradually, she relaxes, intent on enjoying the evening.

And even though eventually they part their hands, it’s a long time before she stops feeling his soft touch on her skin.

*

Her mother finally corners her halfway through the reception, half-dragging her out of the main hall.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

Molly chokes on her champagne and splutters for a moment, staring at her mother in disbelief.

“Well, are you?” her mum presses, unperturbed. Molly feels her cheeks turn scarlet.

“Mum!” she hisses. “We’ve only just… I mean, it’s only just today – “

“Is he pressuring in any way? Are you in any trouble? Why didn’t you tell me anything? Is he… I’m so sorry, but I have to ask this… is he… blackmailing you?”

Molly’s jaw falls open.

“What?” she cries, aghast.

For a moment her mother looks a bit uncertain, but then she makes up her mind. “Please tell me, I can help you, whatever it is,” she implores. “I’m worried – I remember him, he’s the man from that car with tinted windows, isn’t he? Are you involved in some shady business? I always knew that you being a coroner would lead to trouble, I just knew it…”

“Mum! It’s not… It’s not, it’s nothing like that, it’s not!”

“You don’t have to pretend, Molly,” her Mum tells her intently. “We can go to the police, one of your dad’s old mates is in the force, I’m sure he can help – “

“Mum!” Molly snaps, having recovered from the initial shock. Her mother falls silent, but the manic look in her eyes does not recede. “You’re wrong! It’s nothing like that. We’re together.”

Saying it out loud gives her a nice thrill.

Her mother gives her a look. “Molly – “

“No, I mean it! We just got together today, so it’s really new – “

“Molly, you can tell me the truth, I won’t be angry – “

“Mum, I’m telling the truth – “

“Molly, please, don’t lie to me. I want to help you. And I know you think I’m old and stupid and I don’t know anything about the world, but I do know that men like that don’t seduce girls like you without an ulterior motive.”

The words hang between them like pointed fingers. Molly feels them jab at her heart, sending ripples of pain through her entire body. She grows angry.

“Are you saying that he wouldn’t want me if he didn’t have anything to gain from it?”

Her mother flinches. “Molly, sweetie, please be reasonable. Men from class and money don’t really go for girls like you, do they? Besides, he’s so much older than you…”

“It’s only ten years,” she says through clenched teeth. “And he’s not God, Mum. He’s a man.”

“Molly – “

“And besides, what could he possibly want from me? What ulterior motive could he have?”

“Sweetie,” her mother explains patiently. “You hold an important position in a hospital that works with the New Scotland Yard. What if he’s a criminal and he asks you to falsify some evidence?”

Molly can’t help it – she snorts, rather inelegantly, and then proceeds to unsuccessfully try to smother the hysterical giggles that threaten to spill out of her mouth.

“What? It’s not unreasonable!” her mother protests.

“Well,” Molly gasps. “Maybe if he was anyone else. Mum, he works for the government – he’s really well-connected. He doesn’t need me to falsify anything, he has hordes of other people for things like that.”

Besides, even if it were true, it’s already too late. She’s already done that, even if it was for another man. She falsified a death certificate and a post-mortem report for Sherlock without batting an eyelid. It was for a good cause, she’s sure, but the fact remains that she committed fraud. She knows that she would do the same for Mycroft, in a heartbeat. Does that make her gullible?

Her mother still looks worried, so Molly, despite being hurt and disturbed by her disbelief, decides to humour her and imagine the worst-case scenario. What kind of a motive would Mycroft Holmes need to play-act being with her if he didn’t, in fact, want to be with her?

He’s worried that she’s a liability, he told her so himself. Is this date a convenient way to ensure that she doesn’t spill the beans? Did he think that because she’s hurt and angry with him that she would betray Sherlock? Was that it? Was he trying to placate her with the dress and the pocket handkerchief and the “state of intent”? And has she not played right into his plan just because he hugged her and told her he wanted to “pursue a romantic relationship” with her?

Her heart twinges anxiously, because this scenario is disturbingly realistic. She’s certain he would go to any lengths to protect his brother, and temporarily pretending to be attracted to one woman hardly seems like a chore. Her thoughts must show on her face, because her mother reaches out and envelops her in an embrace.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m just worried about you, sweetie… Just be careful, all right?” she murmurs into her ear while rubbing circles on her back. “I just want you to be happy…”

Molly leans into her shoulder, frowning, dread heavy in her stomach. “Let’s go back,” she says tightly. “They’re waiting for us.”

They step back into the main hall and Molly’s eyes search for the tall figure with the charcoal waistcoat and emerald pocket square. She spots him next to her widely gesticulating uncle, listening politely even though she knows the conversation must be tedious – Uncle George does only have two topics: his job as a car mechanic and used cars – and her uncle seems to be basking in the attention. She sees Mycroft’s eyes flicker over the other man’s shoulder, and when he sees her, his expression eases and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. She watches him smile at her across the room only with his eyes, and something warm uncoils in her chest. In this one precious moment she realizes that, even though her mother’s suspicions are still fresh in her mind, she’s not going to be careful at all.

“Is everything all right?” he asks her when she sits down next to him. She basks in the scent of his cologne and the sound of his voice.

“Everything is perfectly fine,” she smiles, and then takes his hand, not caring if anyone sees her or not.

If he makes her feel like this, then he’s definitely worth the risk.

“Will you dance with me?” she asks before she can think better of it.

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. “If you wish.” He stands up and offers her his arm. “Shall we, then?”

It’s only when they reach the dance floor does she realize which song is playing. Steve Tyler’s maudlin vocals fill the room, bringing forth associations with a particularly epic piece of American cinematography. Molly can’t help but snort, just as Mycroft starts guiding her into a vaguely waltz-like position.

“Something amuses you?” he asks with a quirk of his eyebrow, but she can detect a hint of uncertainty in his tone. Normally, she would be the first to reassure him, but this joke is too good to pass up.

They start dancing; it’s nothing fancy, just the standard left-right step dance one does to pop music when one does not actually wish to exert oneself.

“I was just wondering, does the British government have any oil drillers on payroll?” she asks, grinning up at him.

The look of confusion on his face is priceless. “Sorry?”

Molly starts giggling, swaying with the melody. “You know, in case there were any meteors heading towards London, or Earth in general.”

Watching his face and seeing the exact moment he gets it is insanely entertaining. His lips curl and a wrinkle appears at the base of his long nose as he straightens haughtily.

“I assure you, we have more reliable plans than that.”

“Oh, really? Like what?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” he tells her, face completely straight. “But do not fear, Britain may not have Bruce Willis, but we do have our share of heroes willing to take care of extra-terrestrial threats. There’s a team in Cardiff, I think. And this annoying fellow with a blue box. He pops into my office every once in a while. Very bad manners. Keeps changing his face between visits.”

Molly titters, no longer able to look him in the eye. Who would have thought that Mycroft Holmes is a closet Doctor Who fan? Still chuckling, she leans her forehead on his shoulder. They’re still dancing, probably a bit closer now than a minute ago. The music changes, one weepy romantic single replaced by another. This time it’s a piece from an old Disney soundtrack.

_Tale as old as time…_

_True as it can be…_

_Barely even friends,_

_then somebody bends,_

_unexpectedly…_

The lyrics are beautiful in their simplicity, and they somehow strike a chord in Molly’s heart. A strange warmth spreads over her body, making her feel boneless and content. Almost absent-mindedly, she squeezes Mycroft’s hand. He squeezes back, his grip on her waist tightening and bringing her just a smidgeon closer.

_Both a little scared,_

_neither one prepared…_

It takes her a moment, but she soon realizes that they are now, for all intents and purposes, openly embracing, the pretense of dancing kept only very barely. The warmth slowly grows into a burning heat, scorching down her spine and up her thighs, and pooling low in her abdomen. A storm is churning within her, an overwhelming desire to lean up and kiss him – but she can’t actually imagine doing it. It would be obscene, a sacrilege, to kiss him in this garish wedding hall with half of her family watching in undisguised fascination. Kissing Mycroft Holmes is as private of an affair as the man himself – and she will be its only witness.

“Take me home,” she says, words ghosting over his pristine shirt collar.

He exhales loudly, and his voice trembles just a little bit when he replies, “Very well.”

There is no more need for words and no place to blunder. Molly feels a bit removed, a bit not in control, but the experience is not scary. She trusts that he will not let her run in circles around the words in her mouth, spilling embarrassment. He’s placing her hand in the crook of his arm, leading her over to make their apologies and goodbyes, taking off her shoulders the burden of conversation. She stands by his side, content and secure, smiling softly. She barely makes out the words of excuse she says to her mum and to Sheila and Ryan, but it doesn’t matter. Mycroft helps her channel her voice and, buffered by his presence, she ends the evening without a stutter or a misplaced comment.

In a matter of minutes they are outside, climbing into one of his cars. The ride to her flat is torture, their conversation stilted and polite, at odds with the tension between them.

When they finally reach her place and the door closes behind them, Molly wants nothing more than to throw her arms around his neck and drag him down for a kiss, but she hesitates. She stands, clutching her handbag in trembling hands, looking at his similarly unsure and tense shoulders. There is a long moment when nothing happens, and the silence stretches between them, uncomfortable and taut, before Mycroft visibly steels himself and takes a step forward, as if determined to make the first move this time. He comes to a stop a hair's breadth in front of her, looking down at her with intent, and she tilts her face up, hoping that her smile is encouraging. The kiss that has been brewing between them since their dance is hesitant and sweet, growing in certainty with each careful touch.

“Promise me you’ll be here in the morning,” she whispers against his lips.

“I promise you I’ll wake you if I need to leave,” he counters, equally softly, playing with her hair.

Molly laughs and kisses him again, lingering. “Fair enough.”

She's surprised how easy it is to lead him to her bedroom. The previous awkwardness has all but disappeared and they regard each other with a warmth that quickly morphs into simmering heat as Mycroft seats them on the edge of her bed and claims yet another kiss. He draws his arms around her, his touch searing through the thin fabric of her dress. He seems to be intent on taking over this time, and she lets him, as she can't imagine a better way of reassuring herself that he means it. She allows him to push her down on the pillows and press himself against her as he trails his hand down her front and along her thigh. She spreads her knees to wrap herself around him, and for the first time notices that she's still wearing her shoes; the heels dig into the backs of his legs. Chagrined, she moves to toe them off, but Mycroft stops her.

“Leave them on,” he growls into her neck. “In fact, leave it all on.”

“Really?” she laughs, thrilled. “Then how do you want to - ?”

“Easily enough,” he says, reaching under her skirt and yanking down her knickers. She squeals, then titters, and helps him get them all the way off.

“Well, okay,” she tugs on his tie for another kiss. “But if the dress stays, then so does the waistcoat.”

“Hmm, only the waistcoat?” he smirks.

“No, I want the whole deal,” she grins, then adds as an afterthought, “You may take off the jacket.”

“Very well,” he answers, doing as commanded.

The sight of him above her in his shirtsleeves is electrifying. She spreads her legs again, in what she hopes is an inviting manner, and her dress pools around her waist, leaving her exposed.

“Yes, very fetching indeed,” Mycroft says, lifting an eyebrow, and then puts his hands on the inside of her thighs, his thumbs stroking the place where the elastic of her stockings meets the flesh. Molly's breath hitches. She loses it altogether when he lowers his head and presses his lips to one of her thighs and kisses his way down. Her heels dig into the quilt as she arches underneath him. He takes her to the brink, but not over it, and she pants in frustration, watching him smirk at her with no trace of remorse.

“The dress suits you even when it's wrinkled,” he quips.

“Thank you,” she says glibly. “But I wish you'd get on with it.”

“Get on with what, my dear?” he teases. “I'm a bit restrained as I can't take off my trousers.”

She chokes on her laughter. “Well, you can unzip them, can't you?”

“That I can do.”

It's insanely hot and also not as awkward as she expected, to make love to Mycroft Holmes with their clothes still on, his cufflinks brushing against her bare arm when he presses her hand to the mattress and the cold button of his trousers shocking the skin of her thigh every time he moves.

And yet, she finds later, it is but a fun exercise, a prelude to what comes next, when the clothes have been taken off and the sheets warmed with their naked bodies as they lie together, her toes brushing the hairs on his calves. It's in that moment, and not in the heat of things, that Molly finds comfort and a quiet happiness. She snuggles closer to the man in her bed and is elated to find him humming in pleasure.

“Good night, Mycroft,” she murmurs into his naked shoulder, lips brushing against his skin.

He answers with a kiss at her brow. “Good night, Molly.”

*

Molly wakes up with a start, to find a shadow looming over her.

“What - ?”

“Don't get up,” Mycroft says, his voice hushed. He's standing next to her bed, wearing everything except for his jacket. In a flash, Molly notices that it's a different suit than the one he'd arrived in.

“What time is it?” she asks blearily, dread settling into her stomach.

“It's three in the morning. I'm sorry... I realize that this is terribly inconvenient, but I've unfortunately been called away.” He pauses, looking remorseful. “And I did promise to wake you if I needed to leave.”

“Oh,” she says dumbly. “Yes, right. Okay. Thank you.”

“I'm sorry...”

“No, no, it's all right, I understand,” she assures him, though she does feel a bit discomfitted.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to, um - “

“No, don't get up. It's still early, you should sleep some more.” He crouches next to the bed and gives her a chaste kiss. “I will let myself out.”

She watches mutely as he stands and walks towards the door, something cold sinking in her stomach. It doesn't go away even when he turns on the treshold and gives her a small smile.

“I will call you when I'm free,” he says quietly, and then disappears into the shadows. She hears the unmistakable click of Anthea's heels on the floor of her living room and then the sound of the front door opening and closing as she and Mycroft leave the flat.

It takes her a while to fall back asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment! It's not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine.

**Part Seven**

Mycroft actually does call her, just as he promised, later in the day.

“Are you free tonight?” he asks without a preamble, then moves on without letting her speak, perfectly aware of her answer. “I wondered if you might wish to join me for dinner.”

“Is this a date?”

“Yes.”

Molly takes a moment to think before she agrees. She has spent the morning answering text messages from Meena and from her mother, which thankfully put to rest her half-serious fretting that the previous night had been a dream, but she is still feeling a bit uneasy.

“Okay,” she says eventually. “Do you want to go out?”

“No, I thought we might dine at my house, if that's no trouble. I shall send a car for you, of course.”

“Oh. Well... all right. Say, sixish?”

“Excellent.”

The car arrives promptly at six. Molly greets the driver with a practiced nod as he opens the door for her.  She spends a couple of minutes watching the back of his head wondering when she'd started to feel that being driven around by mysterious secret agents is perfectly normal.  Is this supposed to be her life now? Having secret service deliver her to a date with a boyfriend who might disappear at any point in the evening because he was called away by the Prime Minister? It's unreal. The funny thing is, the only part of it that actually awes her is the fact that Mycroft Holmes is her boyfriend now. Perhaps boyfriend is the wrong word. He wants to “pursue a romantic relationship” with her. That makes him... a romantic partner? A lover? The former seems too scientific, the latter too illicit. What would be a properly ridiculous and uptight word for him to use? Her vocabulary fails her; she will need to consult a thesaurus when she gets back.

Her musings are a distraction from the deeper issue at hand. Her disquiet has not left her, insidious and relentless, stirring just below the surface of her thoughts. She pushes it aside when Mycroft greets her warmly on the doorstep of his grand house.

“Hello, my dear,” he says, eyes smiling, when he lets her in. “I trust you had a good day?”

She smiles back. She thought she might feel awkward, but it's surprisingly easy to slip back into a flirty mood. “Passable. I had to fend off my best friend's questions about my mysterious boyfriend.” Just as predicted, she sees him twitch at the word, and can't help but grin in glee. “And let me tell you, when she wants to, Meena is like a dog with a bone.”

“I see,” he says stiffly, trying to hide the tinge of colour in his cheeks by turning away and leading her down the hall. She follows gladly, amused.

“Out of curiosity,” he says loftily, “what did you tell her?”

“Oh, that you were this really pompous bloke I met through my colleagues at Bart's.”

He snorts. “Pompous?”

“Well, who else would send me a mysterious dress and then arrive at my doorstep with no invitation to take me to my cousin's wedding?”

“Surely you meant a _generous_ bloke.”

Molly laughs. “Well, Meena was properly titillated by it all. She wants to meet you for real, you know.”

The sentence hangs between them. Mycroft turns around, face carefully neutral.

“I'm sure it can be arranged, if you wish it,” he says.

Molly raises an eyebrow. He stares back, unflinching. His sincerity warms her heart and she smiles.

“Perhaps later,” she replies. “You've met my entire family last night. It's enough excitement for me right now.”

“Very well,” he agrees, then gestures towards the large living room with the wingback chairs and the stone statues. “Shall we?”

“Just a moment,” she says before stepping closer to him and slipping her hands under his jacket and around his waist. He is smart enough to meet her halfway for a lingering kiss. Molly smiles happily. “Mmm, hello.”

“I thought kisses came after the date,” Mycroft quips half-heartedly.

“Oh, but you're already my boyfriend,” she grins. “Different rules apply – first of all, I get to kiss you whenever I want.”

His expression turns sour at the word, but then clears and becomes mock-incredulous. “You are quite presumptuous, Doctor Hooper.”

“Am I? Should I not kiss you?”

“I did not say that.”

“Are you not my boyfriend, then?”

He looks like she's just forced a lemon down his throat. For a moment she fears that she might have overstepped her bounds with her mischief, but apparently not.

“I prefer the term 'suitor'...” he replies haughtily.  “It makes me appear less like - “

“A real person?”

“A bumbling schoolboy.”

Molly smiles fondly. “Ridiculous man. I think I will call you my gentleman caller from now on. Is that sufficiently grandfatherly for you?”

He looks down on her sternly, but his eyes are dancing. “That will be sufficient.”

The room is just as she remembers it, the table laid out for two, the meal guarded by the stone knights. Molly remembers the last time she was here with mixed feelings, but she is determined to put the past behind her and forge new memories in its place. Mycroft is obviously very proud of his grandiose mansion of a house, so she supposes that she will need to spend a lot of time here if she wants to continue this relationship.

No one disturbs them and it seems that they are alone in the house, because when they finish their meal Mycroft produces a tray and carries the dirty plates off to the kitchen. Molly follows him and is overwhelmed by the coziness of the furnishings. The room looks like it's frequently used, which surprises her – she somehow assumed that Mycroft didn't cook. Of course, the kitchen is supplied with all the modern appliances, so Molly becomes a witness to Mycroft putting away their dishes into a cleverly disguised dishwasher. It's strange, seeing him do this perfectly ordinary chore looking immaculate in his suit.

“Is there something on my face?” he asks, amused.

“No, but there's something on mine,” she replies cheekily. “It's astonishment. Mycroft Holmes, doing chores. Unbelievable.”

“Well, if you thought that I had a horde of attendants hidden away in the servant's wing, then think again. I'm afraid it's only me most days.”

“And your security unit.”

“And my security unit,” he agrees.

Molly can't help the happy smile that blooms on her lips. “So... What are we going to do now?”

“Well, I thought... dessert?” he replies, raising an eyebrow. Molly flushes as his eyes roam down her figure.

“Dessert is good, I think.”

“Fabulous.”

Against her expectations, but most definitely in line with her wishes, he is still there in the morning.

*

It turns out that being Mycroft Holmes' girlfriend – or lady friend – is surprisingly normal.

They meet whenever their schedules allow it, and call each other and text whenever they don't. Mycroft sometimes kidnaps her for lunch in a fancy secret location, and their lunch dates don't look any different than their previous meetings, except for the kisses they sometimes exchange and the occasional subtle handholding. Molly often spends the night at Mycroft's house, and he sometimes stays over at her flat, managing to sleep till the morning more often than not. Frankly, most of the time it's Molly rather than Mycroft who cuts off their time early when she is on call at the morgue, and when she finally realizes that, her lingering uneasiness is put to rest.

Molly is, to be honest, embarrassingly happy. While the sex is good, their non-sex time is amazing – something that has never happened to her before in a relationship. They often spend their evenings together, but engrossed in different books or sets of papers, working alongside each other in perfect harmony, neither of them feeling excluded or neglected. Mycroft helps her prepare for the upcoming conference, patiently acting as an audience to her first stuttering attempts at delivering her paper. Soon, with his helpful pointers and unwavering support, she grows confident enough to speak better and without interruptions, and she starts to believe that she won't make a spectacle of herself when the time comes.

"You will be fine," he tells her one day when she starts fretting over her notes for the umpteenth time. They are in her flat; Mycroft is relaxing on the sofa, sharing it with Toby, with whom he has reached a mutual understanding to her unending awe. Molly tries not to freak out, the text of her paper blurring in front of her eyes.

"But what if they ask me - "

"Molly," he interrupts. "You will be fine. In fact, I believe you will be spectacular, and if you don't trust my judgment, then I fear you have lost half of your IQ due to my superior performance in the bedroom."

That startles her into a giggle. "That was terrible."

"It served its purpose," he says slyly, standing up and walking over to her. He drops a teasing kiss to her neck. "You are sufficiently distracted."

Needless to say, she stops worrying for a while after that.

Frankly, the time till the Congress passes in a flash, and Molly can't believe she managed to focus on her paper at all, she's so dizzy with her happiness.

"Why don't you wear the suit I bought you to deliver your paper?" Mycroft suggests, watching her pack her suitcase the day before she's supposed to leave for Prague.

"What suit?" she asks, shooing Toby away from the pile of clothes on her bed.

"You were going to buy it when I kidnapped you for the first time, remember?"

Molly stops, then laughs. "Ah, yes, I forgot all about it! I put it in the wardrobe and never wore it. Good idea!"

She finds the suit where she left it, in mint condition, the tags still attached. When she turns back towards the bed, she finds Mycroft watching her carefully.

"What?" she asks.

"I'm sorry I can't go with you to Prague," he says.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll be fine! It's just a conference, after all."

"Oh, I've no doubt you'll do splendidly. Still, I regret that I must remain here."

She comes closer and gives him a kiss. "Thank you," she says, smiling. "Your support means a lot to me. As long as you promise me you won't laugh when I undoubtedly call you to cry about what a moron I am, then I am absolutely fine with going all on my lonesome."

He smirks. "That, I can most certainly do."

The next day, he gives her a lift to the airport in one of the government cars. He doesn't walk her to the customs, but it almost looks like he wants to.

"There's something I want you to have before you go," he says, reaching into his pocket and producing a small jewelry box. Molly freezes in her seat. "Don't be so alarmed," he chides, "it's nothing quite as asinine as you are imagining."

The box reveals a gold wedding ring - exactly the same as Mycroft's and Anthea's.

"It's a GPS tracking device with an inbuilt signaling mechanism," he explains. "If anything happens, you will be able to send an SOS to me and I will have the means to find you wherever you are."

"You know what, you could have told me this before," Molly gives him a pointed look, remembering her agonized wonderings about the rings. "Or is it a state secret?"

Mycroft ignores her, instead focusing on showing her how to switch on the SOS signal in case of distress. There is a tiny scratch on one of the rims which, when pried up by a fingernail, becomes a little antenna. In order to send the signal, it's necessary to open and close it twice in quick succession. The second time is an insurance against accidents with clothing or idle fingers. It seems straightforward enough, so Molly files it away, though she hopes she won't ever use it.

"Be careful," he tells her before she gets out of the car.

"All right," she says, a little uncertain. It seems like he is worried about something, but that is just silly, so she puts a lid on the feeling of unease and smiles. "Wish me luck!"

"Good luck," he says, his eyes warm. Heartened, she watches the car drive away and then enters the airport.

*

Within an hour of arriving, Molly is completely in love with the Golden City. She drops her bags at the hotel and does some sightseeing, sending Mycroft and Meena selfies from the Wenceslas Square and Charles Bridge. The conference doesn't start till the next day, so she has some time to spare for a lovely dinner in an Old Town restaurant at an outdoor table overlooking the Astronomical Clock, which reminds her a little bit of Big Ben, if in an exotic way.

When she gets back to the hotel, the nerves start.

"You'll be fine," Mycroft tells her over the phone when he hears her panicking over her notes for the third time.

"What if I forget something? What if I oversleep?"

"I will wake you up myself," he says, exasperated.

"Oh, could you? That would really ease my mind..."

He snorts. "I will wake you up at eight."

"Thank you," Molly says softly, moved for no apparent reason. She trusts that he will keep his word, even if it's such a small thing, and this trust makes her feel like her insides are overflowing.

"You're welcome. Now, please go take a shower, relax and go to sleep. You'll do great tomorrow."

She does as he says, and before she knows it she is waking up to the sound of her ringtone.

"Good morning," Mycroft's voice greets her from across Europe. "I hope you slept well."

Molly smiles sleepily. "I did... Though I wish you were here with me... This bed is really too big and fluffy for just one person..."

"Now, Molly," he chides, but she can hear the answering smile even though she can't see it. "You have a conference to attend in an hour and a half."

"All right, all right, I'm getting up," she grumbles.

"Good luck," he says before hanging up.

Molly prepares herself with care, putting on the trouser suit that Mycroft bought for her so long ago. She twists her long hair into a plaited chignon and looks into the mirror for a long time, giving herself a silent pep talk.

The hotel is thankfully a walking distance away from the conference venue (she has to wonder at the mysterious efficiency of Mycroft's minions; she never would have managed to secure a room like this herself...), and since it's a sunny and warm September morning, the walk is pleasant and invigorating. Despite her nerves, she feels like she could conquer the whole world.

*

"Oh, my God, I thought I was going to die," she whispers furiously into her phone a couple of hours later.

"Did it not go well?" Mycroft asks, alarmed.

"No, no, it was amazing!" she cries happily. "I could see all of them noting things down and at first I thought that they were all writing things to criticize me about, but then it turned out that they liked it! A lot, apparently. I've never gotten so many questions at a conference before!"

"I am glad. I was sure you would do great. Your colleagues would have been morons not to recognize your good work."

"Oh, shush, you think everyone is a moron, including me."

"That's only relative to - "

"Oh, sorry," she interrupts, grinning. "I need to go, the next session is starting. I'll call you once I get back to the hotel."

She hangs up and puts her phone on silent before going back to the conference room.

*

The dinner at the end of the day is held at a fancy restaurant near Josefov, the old Jewish quarter. Molly's paper has been such a success that she hasn't had a moment's peace during all the coffee and lunch breaks, and the dinner is no different. She is understandably overwhelmed by all the attention, so she takes the first chance she gets to dash outside for a bit of fresh air under the pretext of going to the loo.

She stands just outside the entrance to the restaurant, at the corner of a small alley, watching the Old Town rooftops gleam in the light of the night lamps, when she hears footsteps.

"Molly, is that you?"

She turns to see a tall man in a dark suit. It takes her a moment to place him.

"Oh! It's Tom, was it? Josh's friend?" she remembers the awkward double date with a wince, but covers it with a smile. "How do you do?"

"I'm great now that I've seen you! What are you doing in Prague?" he grins widely, coming to stand next to her, a bit too close for comfort.

"I'm with that lot," she points to a sign indicating that half the restaurant has been taken over by pathologists.

"Oh, right, yes, you were a doctor..."

"What brings you here, Tom?"

"IT training, boring stuff," he replies, self-depreciation evident. "Actually, I was just going for a beer with my colleague, do you want to come with?"

Molly almost cringes at the plain eagerness in his face. His interest is unexpected, seeing as the last time they've met he was more than happy to flee from her presence.

"Sorry, but I need to get back inside," she says, only a little bit apologetic at the comical way his face falls. "It was nice seeing you, though..."

"At least come and meet my friend," he says, grabbing her elbow and steering her forcefully into the alley behind them. "He was just having a cigarette..."

"Look, Tom," she starts, intending to rip her elbow away and give him a dressing down, when an arm shoots out from a shadowed doorway on their right, the hand closing around her mouth.

Before she can think to struggle, Tom snags her other hand behind her back and keeps her immobile while the unknown assailant forces a gag between her teeth and then throws a bag over her head. Tom makes quick work of tying her wrists together using what feels like cable ties. The plastic digs into her skin tightly, the sting making her mind snap back on track from the la la land of disbelief.  It's too late, though. One of the men snags her around the middle and easily hoists her over his shoulder. Molly tries kicking him, but his grip on her legs is iron-strong, and with her hands tied behind her back there is nothing she can do but swing helplessly, blood rushing down to her head, screams muffled by the gag in her mouth. She stops screaming after a moment, too focused on trying not to choke on her own saliva.

"Good girl," says the man, patting her on the back of her thigh. "No use making yourself hoarse."

His English is good, but there is something studied about it, the accent a passable facsimile of the Received Pronunciation. He moves into the doorway and passes quickly through the building, a change in temperature telling Molly when he emerges outside in the back.  It becomes apparent that he has a car waiting when he throws her unceremoniously into the trunk. With the air knocked out of her by the impact, she has no choice but to listen to the thunk of the tailgate falling closed, and then to the roar of the engine coming to life. The car starts moving and Molly allows herself a moment of panic, before she wills her nerves to settle enough to think.

Sherlock's face appears inside her head, telling her to evaluate the situation methodically, and she does, breathing as deeply and slowly around the gag as she can. Things are not great, to use an understatement. She is bound, gagged, and blindfolded in the trunk of a moving car, without her bag, which she left back at the restaurant. She has been kidnapped by a non-English man who clearly knows who she is, and who has had some time to plan his move. It's uncertain whether Tom had been sent to sniff her out when they first met, or whether he was recruited later, but it's clear that this was no chance meeting. Which can mean one of two things: either they're going to try and torture her for information about Sherlock, or they've taken her as leverage against Mycroft. Not everything is as bad as it could be, though. Although her wrists are a bit sore, she is so far otherwise unharmed, and in full possession of her faculties. What's more, they haven't taken her ring.

There are no words to describe how grateful she is for Mycroft's paranoia right now. She supposes it's not paranoia if the threat is real; in this case it seems it's just common sense. Thoughts buzz through her brain one after another. Should she use it? If she's been kidnapped as a bargaining chip against Mycroft, shouldn't it be safer to keep him away? What if something happens to him? The answer to that question comes quicker than lightning - of course he wouldn't come himself, he would send trained professionals. Sherlock is the one rushing in without backup; Mycroft is the string-wielder, he probably has a dozen anti-terrorist teams at his beck and call. What's more, he must have been aware of a threat against her to give her the ring in the first place. She thinks she can trust that his contingency plans are well in place and he won't be harmed if she calls for help. Besides, if they're after intel on Sherlock, it's better to be rescued before she can be broken.

Decision made, she twists the gold ring on her finger and finds the hidden latch with her nail, activating the SOS signal. That done, she settles down to wait, surprised at how relatively calm she feels.

*

Being kidnapped turns out to be a bit underwhelming. There are no torture chambers, no water boarding, tooth-extracting tongs, or even rape threats. There is, of course, a gun held to her head, and two men who can easily overpower her, but that’s not nearly as scary as she would have expected. After her initial panic she’s been strangely numb. She didn’t see the point of struggling when they got her out of the trunk, led her into a building, and tied her to a chair with more zip ties.

When they finally take off the bag from her head, she sees that they have brought her out to what appears to be an abandoned factory warehouse of some sorts. Molly supposes that she should be a bit more impressed with the remote location, as well as the industrial ruin chic, but she can’t help but feel right at home instead of discomfited. After all, it’s not that different from one of Mycroft’s customary “date” locations. The room is large and empty, with a high slanted roof, red brick walls, and an open plan floor covered in dust and debris. Tom is standing to the side, peering out of a broken window. Her chair is somewhere in the middle, facing a great wooden door that must serve as the exit. The other man sits down in another chair in front of her, a handgun trained on her face.

“So,” he says after a beat. “Miss Hooper. You are a very strange woman.”

She gives him a glare, unable to answer around the gag in her mouth. The man is white and nondescript, of average height, but of athletic built, clean shaven, with mousy blond hair and light, watery eyes. He has a forgettable kind of face, triangular and a bit rat-like, with a high forehead and a pointy nose. He’s neither handsome, nor particularly off-putting, approximately between thirty-five and forty-five, wearing middle-brow jeans and a Nike T-shirt. In other words, there’s nothing about him that would give her any insight as to what he wants from her. At least it’s nothing that can be deduced by an average person like her.

“You’re probably curious why I brought you here,” he says with a pleasant smile. He seems relaxed and confident. “You see, my boss made a mistake in dismissing you and it cost him greatly. I’m not about to make the same mistake. I’ve been watching you for a while and it turns out that I was right… You are much more involved than it appears at first glance.”

Molly stares at him, her mind working a mile a minute. Is he talking about Moriarty?

“Of course, involving you wasn’t a bright idea either. I’ve done some checks on you, and let me tell you, it’s not impressive. Of course, you’re intelligent, I’ll give you that. The only person in your extended family to graduate from university! I can respect that. Your career could use a boost, though, it seems to me like your insecurities are holding you back, but that’s to be expected. I can understand why he would use you, if he was desperate enough, your placement was perfect. But the rest I really don’t get.” He shrugs, still smiling. “To be honest, it bugs me. It bugs me a lot, but in a pleasant way. I will enjoy learning the truth, that’s for sure.”

He stares at her for a long moment, tapping his lips thoughtfully.

“So my bargain is pretty simple. You tell me all you know about Sherlock Holmes and where he is, and I don’t kill you.” He wriggles the gun in his hand nonchalantly. There is something strange about the way he is holding it, though, like he’s not entirely sure of what he’s doing. This uncertainty doesn’t show on his face, but Molly doesn’t dismiss it when her gut tells her that he won’t pull the trigger. So she sits calmly when he reaches out and gets rid of her gag.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tells him after coughing. “Sherlock is dead.”

He snorts and looks at her pointedly.

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you,” she reasons, trying to add a plaintive tone to her voice. “Sherlock j-jumped off a roof… I, uh… I performed the post-mortem myself, I know he is… gone.”

He leans back, considering. “So you’re saying that you watched your boyfriend kill himself, then cut up his corpse, and then snagged his older brother instead? Sorry, but that doesn’t sound very convincing.”

When he puts it like that… She hangs her head, feigning embarrassment.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” she mumbles.

“No, he wasn’t, was he?” the man says cruelly. “Still, you were in love with him, and you cut open his body. That’s cold.”

Molly raises her eyes to meet his. “It was my job.”

“You’re made of sterner stuff than I expected,” he comments loftily. “Nice try, but I know he is alive, so you can stop bullshitting me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m really not. Do you want to know how I know?”

She stays silent, but it doesn’t deter him. He leans forward, smile disappearing.

“Because he fucking destroyed my drug ring six months ago, that’s how I fucking know.”

Molly can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine, not only because of his words, but also because of the way he delivers them. The quiet, simmering anger in his flashing eyes is the first real sign that this man is actually dangerous, and Molly feels tendrils of fear creeping into her heart.

“It was a perfect scheme, really. I had it all running smoothly, paying my dues to the big bad spider on time, perfectly respectable. And then that bastard waltzes in and unravels it all in a manner of days.” He pauses, fixing her with an intense stare. “So it’s really quite simple. You tell me all I need to know, and I don’t kill you.”

“I really don’t know anything,” Molly replies, the wobble in her voice genuine.

“Don’t lie to me!” he shouts in her face, making her jump in fear. She screws her eyes closed for a moment, before forcing herself to calm down. She needs to stall him somehow, wait him out till Mycroft’s cavalry arrives. At least she hopes someone is coming for her.

“I’m not lying… I really don’t know anything. You’re right, I helped him fake his death, but I don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing, or if he’s even still alive…”

“Excuse me if I don’t believe you,” he says snidely. “Why else would you keep in touch with Mycroft Holmes?”

Molly blinks, uncertain whether she should tell the truth or no. “I… I’m not sure what you mean…”

“It’s hilarious, really. Such an amazingly stupid mistake. I mean, who would seriously believe that the Ice Man was _dating_ you?” he snorts, shaking his head. “He is supposed to be so smart, but he thinks that no one will question such an obvious cover? Don’t make me laugh. Actually, I did, it was the funniest fucking thing I have ever heard. I had to take a couple days off to calm down before I could finalize my plans, because, man, seriously.”

Molly is surprised how much it stings, to have a complete stranger laugh at the very idea of her relationship with Mycroft. She knows it’s not the time to feel insecure and hurt about this, but she can’t really help it. It would be easier to shake off if his words didn’t mirror some of her hidden doubts.

“Now,” the man says slowly, deceptively calm. “I’m getting impatient.”

“I really, truly, don’t know anything,” she tells him, wondering if she should just make something up, feed him some false information, but she’s never been good at fibbing, he’ll know she’s lying.

“I _will_ kill you,” he snarls, surging to his feet and pressing the barrel of his gun to her forehead. Molly shrieks in fright. “Or do you not believe me?”

“I b-believe you,” she manages through chattering teeth.

“I don’t think you do,” he says, his rage retreating again. He moves the gun from her face, but Molly doesn’t relax, so tightly wound that she can barely breathe. She has underestimated him, she should have realized that he meant business, she should have thought of some lie, something. But now her head is empty, there’s no way she’ll be able to fabricate anything. She’s going to die here, with a bullet to the head, in some silly warehouse in Prague.

“Hey, Tommy, come here for a sec, will you?”

Oh, God, she has forgotten about Tom. Sweet, awkward Tom, how could she not have noticed anything wrong about him, he seemed so normal, even if he did freak out about the cameras…

“Yeah, boss?” Tom says, coming to stand in front of Molly’s chair.

“Miss Hooper does not believe me. She thinks she will somehow get out of this alive without giving us anything.”

“Yes, well,” Tom’s answering grin is patronizing. “She isn’t very bright. You really did think I wanted to adopt a cat, didn’t you?” he addresses her. “You silly thing. When he told me that you were part of a conspiracy behind the British government, I thought you would be smarter. But you were just a pawn, weren’t you? So starry eyed, of course those posh ponces would use you, such an easy target…”

“If she were such an easy target,” the other man drawls. “Then how come you couldn’t seduce her months ago?”

Tom grimaces, offended. “How was I supposed to seduce her when Holmes was watching her all the bloody time? He had public security cameras trained on her wherever she went…”

“Fucking hell, man, do you seduce a woman on fucking Trafalgar Square, or in your fucking bedroom? So fucking useless,” the other man bits out, exasperated, and shoots Tom straight in the head.

Molly screams as Tom’s lifeless body crumples to the ground. She screams some more as the man grabs her hair and presses the gun to her temple.

“ _Now_ do you believe me?” he asks, and Molly nods, speechless, holding back sobs of terror. “Then start talking!”

But she doesn’t know what to tell him, her mind is full of white noise, she really doesn’t _know_ anything; that was the point, she wasn’t supposed to know anything so she wouldn’t become a target. But now it’s all shot to hell, but maybe that’s fine, she won’t be able to betray Sherlock, and she would, she totally would if she knew anything…

The sound of somebody’s laughter drifts through the broken window. Two young men are talking loudly in Czech, getting closer.

“ _Kurva!_ ” the man swears. “Those fucking kids. Can you believe them?” he tells her, almost conversationally. “They come here to take pictures and play at post-apo. I’ll give them fucking post-apo. You wait here, and no funny ideas, you understand?”

Molly nods weakly, and stifles a cry of pain when he yanks her hair for the last time before striding towards the door, hiding the gun in the back of his trousers. She sits there, trembling, for a moment after he disappears, listening to his heavy footsteps on the gravel outside. She could scream, alerting the boys, but he probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill them, and she’s not prepared to have that on her conscience. She tries the restrains, but the zip ties do not budge; if anything, they tighten around her wrists and ankles. For a wild second she considers breaking the chair instead, like Scarlett Johansson in _The Avengers_ , but then she realizes that the chair is made of metal and plastic. She supposes she could hobble somehow, or crawl… If only her ankles weren’t tied to the chair legs, of course… She spares a glance at Tom’s body, wondering if maybe he has something on him that would help her, but, as it turns out when she tries to wriggle, the chair is somehow nailed to the floor, so there’s no way of checking. Releasing a moan of despair, Molly slumps back in the Goddamn thing, completely, devastatingly out of ideas.

The door creaks a bit when opened, making her heart thud painfully in her chest, but when she turns to look, it’s not the man coming in, but a homeless hobo.

Molly stops breathing.

It’s Sherlock. Unmistakably Sherlock, with a wild, unattractive beard, wearing a stained hoodie and a hideous beanie. He is at her side in seconds.

“Are you all right?” he demands, and the sound of his deep voice snaps her out of her stupor. "We need to hurry, my homeless network won't keep him occupied for long."

“Oh, my God.”

“Molly, focus. Are you all right?”

“Yes!” she cries. “Get me out of here before he comes back!”

“Ondrej Doubek is a moron, but he’s dangerous,” Sherlock starts rooting in his pockets for a knife, babbling at her, clearly nervous. “Moriarty did all the work for him on that drug ring, but it was a brilliant job, worth all the money, I couldn’t incriminate him if I tried. I’d have framed him for something if I knew he’d come for you, though. But to be fair, I expected Mycroft to do a better job of protecting you. He’s losing his touch. Though I must admit this farce was inspired. One of Mycroft’s most exotic ventures, I never would have thought he’d have such imagination.” Sherlock snorts in disdain, finally finding the knife. Molly frowns.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she asks hysterically.

“Pretending to be your – _boyfriend_ ,” he bits out, as if finding the concept both ridiculous and completely revolting. He crouches to cut the zip ties at her ankles. “He sees Doubek’s lackey trying to sniff you out, so he steps in as your fake date to make him think that he’s seeing you for personal reasons and not because you have any connection to me.” He pauses, unaware that Molly is quietly losing her mind, then adds, flippantly, “Not one of his best ideas, though it seemed to have worked for a while, and it certainly was entertaining.”

Molly lets him cut the ties at her wrists and then lift her up so that she is standing upright on unsteady legs. She doesn’t have the strength to deceive herself anymore. Inside her head everything falls into place, as if her mind was waiting for this outcome all this time, knowing that what was happening was too good to be true. Of course, she thinks dully, as if the new revelation was just an answer to an interesting puzzle, and not something horrifying and personal. Now it makes perfect sense. Of course he was pretending. Why wouldn’t he? It’s so logical when it’s pointed out that it’s embarrassing that she fell for it, really.

Bizarrely, she thinks back to a time a hundred years ago, when she entered the lab at Bart’s happily flustered over having a boyfriend, and then a moment later left it in tears, because Sherlock Holmes revealed her boyfriend to be gay. It was the first sign that she can’t trust her own instincts when it comes to her personal life; she is blind as a newborn kitten. She was blind with Jim from IT, with Tom the conspiracy freak, and with Mycroft the mastermind, apparently. _For the sake of law and order, please avoid any future attempts at a relationship, Molly._

How funny. She should have listened to his advice, after all. Now it's too late.

Sherlock moves to the exit to scout their way out, but before he can reach it, the door is kicked in from the outside and, to Molly's surprise, several anti-terrorist operatives sweep into the warehouse. Upon seeing the two of them unharmed and Tom lying dead on the floor, they lower their weapons and move to encircle them. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees Mycroft walk in in their wake, suit and umbrella perfectly in place.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock snaps in disgust, the first to recover from his shock. “I thought you hated legwork.”

“Legwork?” Mycroft asks with such incredulity that Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “This is not _legwork_. This is necessity.” He walks briskly towards them, eyes on Molly and ignoring everyone else. “Are you all right?”

Molly stares up at him, seeing the intensity of his gaze, the frown of his brow, and the stiff set of his mouth and she knows, without a shadow of doubt, that Doubek was wrong, that Sherlock was wrong,  and that her mother was wrong, and she should never have believed any of them. Relief floods her, making her knees wobbly, and she takes a step forward and sags against him, forehead pressed to his tie. The familiar smell of his cologne finally forces tears out of her eyes. They dribble down her nose and fall into the space between his shirt and waistcoat.

“Molly,” his voice betrays worry, as does the tight grip on her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m – I’m fine,” she manages, throat closed by the sheer magnitude of emotion that courses through her body. She wants to put her arms around him and cling, to attach herself to him like a parasite and never let go.

“Well,” a deep voice cuts through, faltering. “This is… unexpected.”

Mycroft goes rigid. She can feel him move his head to look at his brother, whom they both seem to have forgotten. Molly’s brain is in pieces; she’s probably in shock. Slowly, she straightens herself and steps back, instantly regretting the loss of contact as Mycroft’s hands fall stiffly from her shoulders. She turns to look at Sherlock and she’s momentarily startled by the shocked, vulnerable expression on his face. He looks as if he’s just been smashed over the head with a sledgehammer.

Words die on her lips. She can’t bring herself to yell at him for hurting her.

“Molly…” he rumbles, and she’s surprised by his genuinely contrite expression. His mind seems to be whirling. “I am sorry. I didn’t – I never thought – ah.”

She looks at him helplessly. “Just… don’t do it again, okay?”

He takes a breath as if to say something, then thinks better of it, and simply nods.

“Good.” She turns to Mycroft, whose expression is frighteningly neutral. “Are we safe, then?”

“Not entirely. Doubek gave us the slip. Someone spooked him,” he answers, looking pointedly at Sherlock. “He probably won’t try to force our hand, but it’s better that we leave either way. There are paramedics two warehouses away, they’ll look you over, Molly.”

She wants to tell him that she’s fine, but she doesn’t have the strength to fight. This is the way he is, the way he shows people he cares. She follows him dutifully outside and allows the paramedics to examine her. Answering concise, medical questions grounds her somewhat, so that when she is pronounced none the worse for wear, she has more or less regained at least a semblance of an emotional equilibrium.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to find an alternative mode of transport, Sherlock,” Mycroft comments as he leads them to a car, fake apology in his tone. “I haven’t accounted for your presence.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock asks mockingly. “I find it hard to believe that you weren’t aware that I was in the neighbourhood.”

Molly frowns. “But he can sit in the front, can’t he?”

“Certainly not,” Mycroft replies, looking steadily at his brother. “Doubek is still at large; I won’t risk taking you anywhere without appropriate reinforcements. Higgs will ride with us.” He nods at one of the operatives and the man slides wordlessly into the front seat, next to the silent driver.

“But that’s all the more reason why he should go with us!” she exclaims.

“Alas, there is no space. I’m sure Sherlock will be fine,” Mycroft says stonily.

Molly rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Sometimes I forget how ridiculous you are,” she says, shaking her head. “The car is designed for five people, isn’t it? I’m sure I’ll be able to squeeze in the middle.” Without waiting for an answer, she climbs inside and slides over the leather upholstery to the middle seat, and buckles her seatbelt.

“What an ingenious idea, Molly,” she hears Sherlock’s amused reply as he climbs in on the left, and his smug face gives her a vague feeling of unease. Mycroft seats himself stiffly on her right and nods at the driver.

As they move further away from the scene, she feels herself gradually relax. Her biggest wish at the moment is to curl into Mycroft’s side and fall asleep, but she knows that he wouldn’t appreciate her clinginess in front of his brother (not to mention the driver and the other man, who are pointedly ignoring them), so she forces herself to stay upright, not touching him. She turns to Sherlock for a distraction.

“So… Are you coming back for good, then?” she asks.

"No. There's still work to be done," he replies curtly.

"Oh," she sighs in disappointment. "Well, be careful, then. I wish it were all over, really..."

"Don't we all..." A strange glint enters Sherlock's eye. "Say, Molly... We should... get together sometimes. When I get back."

Molly blinks. "Uh... Sure... I'd love another party at Baker Street..."

"No, no, no," says Sherlock. "I meant... we could go out for a coffee."

Molly stares at him, uncomprehending. "A coffee?"

"Yes... That's what people do, don't they?"

His eyes flash for a second over her head and Molly becomes aware that Mycroft has been completely silent. She turns around without thinking and sees him looking out the window with a blank expression and stiff shoulders, ignoring them. Molly pauses, taking him in, and suddenly everything clicks into place.

Oh.

He is jealous of Sherlock. He is painfully trying to keep cool about it, but it's plain as day - Sherlock's goading has hit a bit too close to home for his comfort.

A wave of self-reproach sweeps over her and she can’t believe she’s been so stupid. Of course he'd be jealous - she has never, not once, reassured him that her crush on Sherlock was gone; she hasn't told him that she loves him. Their relationship seemed too new, too fresh, and too natural to interrupt it with unwieldy declarations.

She sends a glare at Sherlock and after, tentatively, she reaches out and slides her fingers into Mycroft’s hand. He looks at her in surprise, but he seems to understand at least a part of what she’s trying to communicate, because he winds his own fingers through hers and gives her a squeeze. His face, however, remains carefully neutral. It breaks her heart.

“I thought you said caring was not an advantage,” Sherlock comments snidely, eyes swinging from their joined hands to Mycroft’s face, his expression a blend of disdain and uncertainty. He ignores Molly's angry glance.

“It isn’t,” Mycroft replies evenly, the picture of quiet dignity. “But sometimes it is simply unavoidable.”

A shadow passes over Sherlock’s face. He gives his brother a small nod and then lapses into a sullen silence, eyes trained on the city passing outside the windows. Molly eyes Mycroft warily, trying to understand, but failing. He’s once again facing away from her, and his hand slips from hers. She feels like the ground is falling from underneath her.

“Drop me off at the train station,” Sherlock breaks the silence. “I think I should head to Serbia without delay.”

“Very well.”

The car makes a turn and weaves through the traffic, heading for the city centre. The brothers sit silent, staring out of their respective windows, and Molly tries not to squirm between them, awkward, confused, and emotionally exhausted. She wants to lean against Mycroft’s dependable shoulder and fall asleep, but she doesn’t dare; the handholding was already a stretch. He’s not a man comfortable with public displays of affection, and she’s not very keen on that either, she tells herself, staying upright.

The problem is, her body is starting to wind down from the stress of the day. The car is warm and the presence of both Sherlock and Mycroft flanking her sides sends a message to her brain, informing her that the crisis has been averted and she can calm down now. Only psychology and biology don’t quite work along such simplified scenarios.

It starts with tremors in her legs. Her thighs begin shaking uncontrollably, and she presses them tightly together, fists pressed to the soft fabric of her suit, as she tries to keep herself from falling apart. She’s been doing so well until now, managing to avoid hysterics and unnecessary break downs. There’s really no need to start now, but her body disagrees with her. The tremors move upwards, and soon she is shaking all over, her knee bumping into Mycroft’s. Mortified, she moves further away, ducking her head.

“Molly?” comes his concerned question.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “Don’t worry. It’ll pass in a second.”

“Molly,” he scolds her sternly.

“I’m fine,” she insists. She can feel Sherlock’s intense gaze stabbing her from the left, and suddenly her breath is leaving her body and she’s left gasping for air. Panic and humiliation overwhelm her and she leans forward, pressing her head between her knees, taking quick, shallow breaths, her chest heaving with the strain of hyperventilation.

There’s a hand resting between her shoulder blades, making soothing circles. Instead of being a comfort, it unsettles her further, and she only just manages not to burst into tears. She’s been so proud of herself, keeping her cool under duress, being strong and almost collected, only to ruin it all and embarrass herself with histrionics.

“Sorry,” she gasps between attacks. “I’ll be f-fine in a minute.”

“Undoubtedly,” Mycroft says flatly. “In the meantime, though…”

The hand on her back moves around her shoulder, tugging her against Mycroft's side so that her face is pressed to the lapel of his jacket. The action is so startling that it manages to sidetrack her panic attack to a confused pause. She’s so wired that this uncharacteristic behaviour only manages to upset her further. She tenses instead of relaxing, and she can feel Mycroft stiffen against her in reply. She doesn’t dare move, though, for fear of further embarrassing him. She can feel Sherlock’s eyes on her back, burning, assessing, and judging. She wonders if the brothers are exchanging glances above her head.

“Sorry,” she mutters again, utterly chagrined.

“Really, Molly,” Sherlock comments from behind her. “You’re a doctor, you should be familiar with the body’s reactions to an adrenaline rush.”

She flinches. Of course she knows it, but it doesn’t change anything, she should be able to control herself at least for a while longer –

“Oh, for crying out loud, stop being an idiot!” Sherlock snaps impatiently. “You think you’ve failed to live up to some imaginary, mythical standard because you can’t control your body’s natural response to intense stress. I hope you realize how immature and moronic that is. Your pathetic hero worship has made you think that we are machines, that we don’t experience fear or relief or that our bodies don’t betray us – “

“I don’t think that!” Molly cries, disentangling herself from Mycroft and turning towards Sherlock. “I don’t think you’re a machine!”

“Then stop acting like you do. It’s annoying!”

“I’m not – “

“Oh, please. Why else would you think I would think any less of you because you’re having a mild panic attack after you’ve been kidnapped by a trigger happy vengeful lunatic?”

Molly falters. “I – “

Sherlock nods. “Precisely. Now stop being an idiot.”

"Okay," she squeaks out and tries to relax back into her seat. After a moment, she makes a conscious decision and leans on Mycroft's shoulder again.

She doesn't think it will work, what with her cheeks burning with embarrassment, and her legs still twitching every now and then, but she’s so tired and it’s so warm in the car that before she knows it her eyes droop closed and her head sways sideways.

When she jerks awake, the car is not moving and Sherlock is climbing out. A bit disoriented, Molly blinks and raises her head from Mycroft's shoulder.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Sherlock smirks.

"Shut up," she mutters half-heartedly. "And be careful."

He closes the door and strides away without so much as a goodbye wave, and quickly disappears in the throngs of people streaming into the railway station. Mycroft gives a sign for the driver to start the car again and they are back in the traffic.

"We will stop by your hotel to get your things and then we're off to the airport. Your bag has already been delivered there from the conference dinner venue," Mycroft informs her stiffly. "We are flying to England in two hours. It's too dangerous for you to remain here with Doubek still at large."

He looks as if he half-expects her to refuse, but Molly has no intention of arguing. She would have liked to stay till the end of the conference, but she can see the imprudence of going back to a place where she isn’t really protected. So she merely nods and leans back in her seat.

The drive to the hotel is long and awkward. Molly's panic attack has lessened, and she sits calmly, trying to ignore the tension between her and Mycroft, who has turned back to staring out the window, expressionless and formal. The two men in the front stay silent and self-effacing.

Mycroft follows her into the hotel when they finally arrive. They enter her room without exchanging a single word, and the silence between them grows even more uncomfortable. Without knowing how to dispel it, Molly turns helplessly to the task at hand and starts packing her belongings.

“I apologize for not arriving at the scene earlier,” Mycroft says officiously after a moment.

She pauses and turns to him with a shaky smile. “That’s okay. Sherlock was there to rescue me, so - "

That turns out to be the wrong thing to say, and she stops talking when she sees the coldness that creeps into his eyes. She stares at him for a while, contemplating her next words.

"You know... Sherlock, he… he made me stupid,” she says softly. “I could never find my tongue with him, I’d stutter like an idiot and welcome his abuse like a gift.”

Mycroft’s posture is stiff. “Yes, he rather does have that effect on – “

“You, though,” she interrupts, her heart blooming with indulgent affection. “You make me smart.”

He falls silent, waiting.

“Though I suppose smart is relative in this case,” she amends wryly. “A smart girl would have run for the hills by now.”

He still doesn’t speak, so she continues. “What it comes down to,” she says, and then takes a deep breath, because this is it, “is that with Sherlock it was silly – I mean, with him it was a… a crush, something stupid… But with you… With you it’s…” She pauses, because her throat is clogged and her mind is empty, she’s not sure how to say this so that he understands. “And then when Sherlock said that you went to the wedding with me only because of this Doubek, for a moment I thought that – “

Mycroft inhales sharply, the sound like a gun going off in the quiet room. She trails off. The silence that follows is deafening. Mycroft’s eyes shift to the left; he looks aghast, ashen with guilt.

Molly’s mind freezes, uncomprehending.

No.

No, this is not happening. She saw him, she did! He was worried about her! He said that caring was unavoidable!

"What - ?" she says, hoping that it's all a mistake, a misunderstanding.

Mycroft speaks, his tone insistent, remorseful, “You have to understand, I knew that Doubek had you on his radar, but it wasn’t anything serious until he attempted to make his move with that insipid idiot. I had to react and… redirect him.”

Molly can’t speak.

She feels sick. She was just telling him that she loved him. She made a Y-incision on her chest and showed him her heart and he, instead of admiring the intricacies of her cardiovascular system, just reached out and ripped it out.

God, it’s strange what kind of metaphors the human mind can come up with under duress.

She swallows, then closes her eyes. The betrayal starts sinking in slowly. There are no tears yet; she’s certain they will come later.

“Okay,” she chokes out.

“Molly?”

“Okay,” she repeats. She doesn’t want to look at him. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t – “

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine now. You can go now. It’s okay. I'll go back to London on my own, don't worry about me. I'm okay.”

“Molly – “

She doesn’t listen to him; she’s making a tactical retreat, walking briskly towards the hotel bathroom and closing the door gently behind her. She can’t hear anything through the buzzing in her head, but she hopes that he’ll take the hint and leave. She sits down on the toilet seat and stares ahead at the tiled wall. It's not the first time she's found herself in a situation like this, sitting in the bathroom after finding out about something unpleasant. The first time was when she was fifteen. She had her first unrequited crush at that age; she remembers crying in the school bathroom when the boy asked another girl to the school dance.

Of course, she later cried in her father's arms as well. She wishes she could hide in his arms now.

There is a nagging thought in the back of her head, a feeling of wrongness, like she's missing something, but she doesn’t have the time to ponder it, because her throat tightens and the pent up misery floods her body.  The realization that she's been betrayed, that it's all been a lie, and that she's been used like a fucking chess piece hits her like a freight train. Molly puts her face into her hands, curls into herself, and lets it go.

It feels like she’s pouring out every single drop of pain and resentment she’s felt throughout her life with her tears. Thoughts and images flash in her head at random, and her mind is her worst enemy, pushing at her a mix of every barb, every self-conscious thought, every messed up relationship, every doubt, and every stab of pain it can find, and adding Mycroft's betrayal like a particularly juicy cherry on top of the cake. She cries for the poor unlovable Molly who tries so hard but still ends up as the butt of every joke. Little Miss Perfect, bumbling in a world she should never have entered. Weird, morbid, immoral, socially illiterate, and pitifully cheerful, clawing at an illusion of happiness that’s just not going to come. Naïve to the point of being absurd, she deserves everything she gets, and more, because you’d think she’d have learnt her lesson by now.

In her mind’s eye she sees Mycroft’s amused smirk, the look on his face as she popped the buttons of his waistcoat, and the way he smiled at her across the wedding hall with nothing but his eyes. Was he laughing at her every step of the way? She gasps her sobs into her fist, silencing herself, because anyone who’ll hear her cry will be right to mock her. Who wouldn’t laugh at the stupid twit of a woman who fancied herself to be important to Mycroft Holmes?

And they’ve warned her. They’ve all tried to warn her, but did she listen? She trampled all over her mother’s concerns, dismissed Doubek’s jibes and then contradicted Sherlock himself. And for what? For her womanly intuition? For her gift of empathy? For what she thought she saw in the quirk of his mouth and the furrow of his brow? If anything, today should be a proof that she’s not infallible when it comes to reading people. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

And yet… She’s seen him, she knows him, he can’t be that good of an actor! No one can be that good of an actor, to keep it up for eighteen months straight, and be consistent enough so that she could pick up on his cues and tells… But all that means nothing because he told her explicitly that –

What did he tell her, exactly?

That it was all pretend, her mind argues back, that it didn’t mean a thing, that it served a higher purpose.

Yes, but couldn’t it have served his purposes and still meant something?

Her mind trips over the idea and stops to think. This is Mycroft Holmes. This is the man who sold his brother out because he thought it was a risk he could take; the same man who clearly cares for that brother and would go to any lengths to ensure his safety. To any sane person those two facts would be irreconcilable, but Molly’s a bit more savvy in the comic book world that is the life of the Holmes brothers and she can distinguish their morality and motives.

In a second she is back on her feet, wiping her tears with the butt of her hand.

She stumbles through the door and into the hotel room, hoping against reason that perhaps he hasn’t gone far, even though she knows that she won’t be able to catch up with him if he left when she told him to. Even so, she’s prepared to run after him, to try and find him at the airport, Hollywood style, and failing that, to fly to England and bang on the door of the house with the giant chess pieces, of the Diogenes Club, or of his office in Whitehall.

She doesn’t need to go quite that far.

Mycroft is sitting on the bed beside her half-packed suitcase.

When she opens the bathroom door, he jerks as if coming out of a trance, and turns towards her. He tries to hurriedly school his features into a resemblance of calm, but it’s too late; she’s already seen him. He looks haggard, the tiredness settled heavily on his brow, making him look old and defeated.

Molly looks at the man who might as well be the British government, the man who holds more power in the palm of his hand than she can possibly imagine, the man who despite all that is not a machine, and for the first time in her life she understands what it means to be a grown woman. There are no illusions obscuring her view; no suits of armour, no costumes, and no impenetrable condescending masks. Here is a man of blood and bone, slightly less bumbling through reality than the rest of them, but still no stranger to mistakes and insecurities. He is a man whom she can take by the hand and guide, and be guided in return, because they are equals and equally to blame in this cock up of a relationship. Because he hurt her by not trusting her, but she hurt him back by not trusting him either. In the end, they are simply two lonely, sad people who refused to communicate properly because of their own prejudices.

A calm certainty hushes the doubts in her mind and quiet warmth that can only be love fills her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply, sitting down next to him. “Please explain it to me.”

He looks back at her, inclines his head, and then launches into a somewhat stilted account of events.

“I knew that Doubek was observing me, yet in the last several months I grew… careless. I was clearly seen with you in public on several occasions.”

She thinks of the time he waited for her to notice him when she was out with her mother or the time before that when he stood with her in the rain, holding his umbrella over their heads.

“It wasn’t long before he put the pieces together and made his move.”

At the time when Meena tried to set her up with Tom, not knowing that he has been recruited by a deadly criminal, Mycroft was still avoiding her, thinking that she had rejected him. Even so, he kept careful tabs on her, so was able to notice what was happening and react accordingly.

“I sent that car because I was worried that you would be compromised. I decided that I couldn’t take the chance. I knew that Doubek was after you because of the information you could have pertaining to Sherlock. There was no way to take his attention away from you short of outright revealing that Sherlock was alive, and that, obviously, was unacceptable.”

“So you decided to pose as my date to make him think that all the times we’ve been seen together were because we were involved romantically,” she intersects.

Mycroft swallows. “That was my original intention. I was ready to explain everything to you, but then… my emotions got the better of me, I’m afraid.” He falls silent for a moment, but finally continues, “And then I understood that there was no reason why the ruse could not be the truth. That the truth is, in fact, much more effective.”

“And it worked.”

“For a short while.”

Molly smiles softly. “He told me that the notion was so absurd that he had to take a break to have a laugh before making plans to kidnap me.”

His mouth quirks. “And yet…”

“And yet,” she agrees.

“For what it’s worth,” he says slowly. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

They both fall silent, watching each other. She’s the first to break the impasse, and everything hangs on her chosen words.

“Do you love me?”

He takes his time to answer, and when he does, his voice is low and hoarse.

“I do.”

She exhales softly. “You can’t do that to me again. Not tell me about your schemes.”

“I can’t promise that.”

She laughs scornfully. At him, at herself, or at the circumstances, she isn’t sure. “Right.”

“You have to understand – “

“I do – I do understand. I hate it, but I understand. But you’ll have to try. Promise me you’ll try.”

He hesitates, and then nods. “I promise.”

“Good.”

She scoots closer, snags her arms under his jacket and around his waist, and hugs him tightly, leaning her head on his shoulder. After a moment, his arms come around her and he returns the embrace, pressing a kiss to her hairline.

“I love you too,” she tells him quietly.

His only response is a low hum as he moves closer and buries his face in her hair.

**Coda**

Two weeks later Molly finds Anthea on her way down to the morgue.

“Hello,” she says cautiously. She hasn’t seen Mycroft’s assistant in a while, and hasn’t really spoken to her since Anthea’s veiled advice about men. To be quite honest, she’s not sure what to expect.

Anthea lifts her head, quirks her mouth, then looks back at her phone. “The boss is inside,” she says by way of a greeting.

“Okay,” says Molly, thinking that the conversation is over, and heads for the door.

“I’m not in the habit of being obvious,” Anthea drawls, stopping Molly in her tracks. “But I suppose it needs to be said. If you hurt him, you _will_ regret it.”

Molly stares. “Uh…”

“With that out of the way,” Anthea continues, ignoring Molly’s horror. She looks up from her phone and smirks. “Do you want to go lingerie shopping?”

Molly is not sure whether her heart can take such an abrupt turn from stark terror to abject embarrassment.

“Oh, my God, no,” she chokes out.

Anthea’s smirk widens. “Shame.”

“You are evil,” Molly says with a hearty dose of admiration. She shakes her head and then smiles. “But I’m glad he has you.”

She’s only a little bit surprised when Anthea’s smirk falters and she turns back to her phone with a cough. “Don’t keep him waiting,” she says officiously.

Fighting a smirk of her own, Molly enters the morgue. Mycroft is standing behind the slab, a covered body between him and the door. Molly quirks her eyebrow at him.

“I thought we were supposed to have dinner later,” she says.

“I brought you something. It’s an apology, of sorts. I thought you might appreciate it,” he replies blandly.

“What, the body?” Molly asks, intrigued. She walks over and lifts the sheet from the corpse’s face. She has to step away and lean on a cupboard to keep from falling over when she sees who it is.

It’s obvious that Doubek hasn’t been dead long, because rigor mortis has yet to properly set in. Molly stares at his face and is peculiarly vindicated. She supposes it’s a bit twisted of her, but she doesn’t feel particularly remorseful about it. She looks up at Mycroft, who is watching her quietly, assessing, and gives him a nod.

“Thank you,” she says simply.

He inclines his head. “My pleasure.”

Molly stares at him across the prostrate cadaver and suddenly it all clicks.

“Oh!” she cries out, finally remembering.

“Hm?”

“This is how we first met, isn’t it?” she asks cheerfully, Doubek forgotten for the moment. “I remember now.”

Mycroft nods, a bit surprised. “Indeed.”

“Over that poor not-her-face woman’s body at Christmas two years ago.”

He smirks. “It’s good that you remember.  I have almost given it up as a lost cause.”

Molly’s smile blooms into a cheeky grin. “Oh, you poor thing, did I offend you? Little Molly Hooper not remembering the great Mycroft Holmes!”

“On the contrary,” he responds calmly, but she knows him now, and his face is like an open book to her. He’s embarrassed, and it’s really quite endearing. “It is one of my aims to be forgettable.”

“Oh, really? That’s not how I remember it,” she teases. “Did I ruffle your feathers when I didn’t recognize you back then? Did I bruise your ego?”

Mycroft sniffs archly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Molly shakes her head, delighted, and decides that enough is enough. “So… I assume you brought him here for a post-mortem?”

“Indeed,” he says, pleased, and then moves to take a seat with a view of the slab.

She raises her eyebrows. “You want to watch?”

“If it’s not too much trouble…”

It must be the most ridiculous date idea in the history of romance, but it’s also morbidly sweet. She’s not sure what it says about her, but she’s strangely touched by the gesture. A bit hysterically, she thinks that perhaps she might actually belong in the comic book world of the Holmes brothers and their sociopathic entourage.

“Okay, then,” she says, flashing her boyfriend (suitor) a bright smile, and goes to collect her tools. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my God, it's finished. I am genuinely sorry it took me so long to complete this story, but at the same time I am insanely proud of myself that I actually managed to do it. Thank you very much for sticking with me till the bitter end, all the way through finishing my first completed multichaptered story. It was an enlightening journey, and it taught me a lot about writing in general.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the last installment, and once again thank you for being here with me for all these years it took me to write the measly 55k words...


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